


IDW One-Shots

by charivari



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers: Shattered Glass
Genre: AU, Acrotomophilia, Aggressive kissing, Alcohol, Alley Sex, Angry Sex, Angst, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Asexual Relationship, AsexualDrift, Author giving herself feels ;-;, Awkwardness, Backstory, Biting, Blood Kink, Blow Jobs, Bluestreak is an artiste, Bomp, Brainstorm feels, Break Up, Can't stop this new ship, Chirolinguistics, Clavis Aurea, Closet Sex, Coping, Death, Death Threats, Deepthroating, Desk Sex, Dildos, Dratchet fluff, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent, Edible Body Paint, Embarrassment, Emotional Manipulation, Empurata, Erotic Electrostimulation, Established Relationship, Ethics, Evil henchmecha, Exhibitionism, F/M, Fingering, Fluff, Friendship, Fulcrum's chin, Gore, Grief/Mourning, Grindcore, Group photo, Hand & Finger Kink, Happy old mechs, Head pats, Healing, Hero Worship, Hippy dippy Drift and Thunders, Holoforms (Transformers), Horns, Humor, Illness, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Insomnia, Irony, Jealousy, Kup advice, M/M, Max gives me feels, Mess, Mildly Dubious Consent, Misunderstandings, Mnemosurgery, More Dratchet, More Red and Max, More Trails feels :(, More evil henchmechs, Obsessive Behavior, Office Sex, Oral Sex, Outliers are brats, Paranoia, Past Relationship(s), Platonic Cuddling, Polyamory, Poor Windcharger... kinda, Poor door, Possessive Behavior, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre Ark-1, Prime kink, Prison, Quark lives AU, Ratchet likes cuddles, Ravage feels, Reference to Shadowplay, Regret, Reunions, Revenge, RiptideLotty feels, Roboid cuddles, Roboids - Freeform, Rodimus the spikeblocker, Rodpod, Roller is Tarn, Rung feels, SG Drift, SG Pipes, SG Ratchet, SG Rung, SG Whirl, SG Whirlceptor, Sad Trails, Seduction, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Reflection, Shockwave unrequited Pax feels, Shower Sex, Sleeping Together, Sleepy Aid, Sleepy Cuddles, Sobriety, Solo, Spoilers for issue 48, Spoilers for issue 50, Spooning, SubHelex, Swerve feels, Therapy, Threesome - M/M/M, Trafficking, Trepan and Overlord being fragging evil, Undercover, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unrequited Love, UnrequitedMaxRung, Voyeurism, Wall Sex, Whirlceptor post issue 47, Wrecker angst, Wreckers, YoungnaiveShockwave, breakdown - Freeform, dark au, finger kisses, gestalt, hints of PTSD, possible dubcon, prewar, selfie - Freeform, shadowplay, timetravel au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-10 19:39:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 53
Words: 34,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4404794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charivari/pseuds/charivari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dump for my random IDW drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kup & Impactor (Pre-Pova)

“Want ta talk to yer,” Kup said quietly to Impactor.

Impactor grimaced,

“Talking isn't exactly my strong suit,” he tossed a thumb over his shoulder at Springer, “The kid on the other hand. Did you hear him talking before the mission?”

Kup didn’t even glance at Springer still talking animatedly to the others.

“That’s who I want ta talk about,” he said.

Impactor gave a rumbling ex-vent.

“Alright then.”

They went to Impactor’s rarely used office.

“Well spit it out,” he told Kup impatiently.

“Ya said yerself, how Springer acts before a mission,” Kup began, “Makin’ speeches, psychin’ everybody up.”

“Kid’s got a way with words,” Impactor said, “Better than than me. So what’s the issue Kup?”

“He’s tryin’ ta impress you.”

Impactor’s mouth curled in response.

“Yeah? And what’s wrong with that?”

“He’s not you, Impactor,” Kup answered, “He wants to be like you, but he isn’t.”

"You saying he's soft?” Impactor growled, “’Cuz let me tell you, from what I’ve seen the kid do…”

“I ain’t saying he’s soft,” Kup said, “The kid’s an amazing fighter. He’s capable.”

He gestured at Impactor,

“But he ain’t ruthless. He ain’t you.”

Impactor huffed,

“I don’t know whether to take that as an insult.”

“No insult,” Kup said, “Warning.”

“Warning?”

“If you keep on thinkin’ he’s the second Impactor, one day you’re gonna find out he’s not,” Kup told him, “And on that day you’re gonna end up disappointed. On that day you’ll end up hurtin’ him.”

Impactor stared at Kup for a long moment.

“Didn’t know you were a fortune teller Kup,” he sneered, “Maybe you could have predicted the war.”

“Can’t tell the future,” Kup said, “Only know what might go down.”

“Might's different to will,” Impactor argued, “Personally I don’t see anything wrong with the kid motivating the troops. You gonna tell him he has no place aspiring to be my successor?"

“I never said he wouldn’t make a good leader,” Kup frowned, “Just that he…”

“Isn’t me,” Impactor said with boredom, “Yeah you said. You know what I think?”

Kup was silent.

Impactor leaned forward, dentae bared,

“You’re jealous I’m fragging him.”

Kup’s face was solemn as he turned to leave.

“Ya know me better’n that,” he said.

Impactor did.

But it would be many cycles later that he regretted not taking his advice.


	2. Kaon & Pharma (Delphi)

"Get that thing out of here," Pharma snarled at Kaon.

Kaon smiled as the Pet strained on it's leash to swipe at Pharma.

"We'll leave when we're ready."

Pharma was pressed back against an circuit slab in an attempt to avoid the Pet's claws. 

"Why are you even here?" he demanded, "The next pick up isn't for weeks."

In addition to that, Tarn usually came alone. Speaking of which…

"Where's Tarn?" 

"He's not here," Kaon answered, "And I didn't come for T-cogs."

He eased his grip on the leash ever so slightly so the Pet could lunge further forward. Not enough to reach Pharma but the medic still flinched.

"I wanted to talk," Kaon continued, "About Tarn in fact."

"What about him?" Pharma snapped.

"I don't trust you," the blind mech said, "Granted Tarn doesn't trust you either. But he relies on you. For T-cogs. If there was any other to procure them, I... Well, the fact is you're our only option. So let me make this clear to you, if you even think of double crossing us, of hurting Tarn, there is no stretch of universe you're going to be able to hide. The Pet and I will find you and kill you very, very slowly."

"Do you think I'm stupid?" Pharma glared at him, "Why would I double-cross the DJD? I do my best to keep up with Tarn's impossible quota. That's hard enough without you tramping in here trying to threaten me with your sorry excuse for a mutt."

Kaon's empty sockets seemed to bore into Pharma's very spark. 

"Just keep in mind what I said. C'mon boy."

He gave a slight tug on the Pet's leash. The two left. 

Pharma straightened with a scowl.

"Fragging piece of slag."

Tarn hadn't mentioned a jealous lover.


	3. Proteus & Sentinel (Pre-War)

Proteus shuddered on his hands and knees as he purged another glob of crude energon.

"Ssh-ock-wave," he slurred the name viciously, lips wet with purged fluid.

It was Shockwave's fault. The slag had presented him with a cube of low grade energon, the kind fit for the disposable class.

"Last session I recall you mentioning how there was nothing wrong with the energon consumed by the lower classes. In fact you said you would drink it yourself."

Cornered Proteus had no choice but to force it down. Every vile drop while Shockwave and the rest of the Senate watched. His tanks had lurched horribly but he had managed to keep himself from purging then and there.

"See," he told Shockwave, "Nothing wrong with it at all. Now if you'll excuse me. I have work to attend to."

"By all means," Shockwave had smiled.

The smile that said he knew he had won. The smile that told Proteus Shockwave knew he would spend the next joors in agony.

A large hand pressed against Proteus' shivering backstrut,

"We should call you a medic."

"No!" Proteus snarled, "I think it's nearly all..."

His tanks lurched again and he hacked up more energon.

He didn't trust a medic to see to him in this state. Not when it was clear what the culprit was. The diagnosis might somehow make its way to Shockwave.

Proteus finished purging and spat out the remaining vestiges of it clinging to his mouth. Sentinel's hand massaging his backstrut was welcome relief.

"Let me take care of him for you," the Prime said.

He meant Shockwave of course. The thought of revenge invigorated him. But not enough to abandon his current position on the floor.

"Let me recover," he said, "And we'll take care of him together."

"As you wish," Sentinel rumbled.

In spite of everything Proteus smirked. Until he felt another purge coming on. It wasn’t much and afterwards his tanks felt tender but empty.

"I think that's the last of it."

Sentinel offered him a cube of premium energon.

"I'd prefer quadruple-distilled engex," Proteus muttered.

"Your tanks wouldn't thank you," Sentinel told him, "Drink that. Then rest."

Proteus gave him a sardonic smile,

"Yes medic Prime."

Sentinel's face was impassive. He wasn't known for his sense of humor. Not that it mattered. He had far greater uses.

Proteus drank the cube. He felt his strength return, the high quality energon warming his sensitive tanks.

Still he allowed Sentinel to scoop him into his arms. Carry him to his luxurious berth.

“Clean that up,” he told the disposable drone trembling in the corner as he went.


	4. Springer & Roadbuster (Post Zero-Point)

"So what are we going to do?" Roadbuster asked.

"Do?" Springer echoed.

"We can't just sit around Debris rusting,” Roadbuster elaborated, "You're the boss, you..."

"Boss?" Springer said with an ironic twist of his mouth, “There’s only two of us left Roadbuster. Doesn’t make sense for me to lead and you to follow.”

The weapons specialist shrugged,

“That’s the way it’s always been done.”

“Was done,” Springer corrected, “The Wreckers are disbanded. Prowl will probably try to keep me unassigned for as long as possible. After all, it wasn’t in his calculations that I’d survive.”

“Frag Prowl,” Roadbuster said derisively, “We have options.”

A faint smile brushed Springer’s mouth,

“We?”

“Of course we. Like you said, we’re the last two left. That means we stick together. If you don’t want to be boss, fine. We’ll be partners.”

“Partners?” Springer’s smile broadened, “That doesn’t sound too bad.”

He grasped Roadbuster’s shoulder,

“Alright then, partner, where do you suggest we go?”

Roadbuster had already prepared a mental list.

"Kup’s going to Earth with Optimus isn’t he?” he said, “After Megatron’s trial.”

“Yeah,” Springer confirmed, “But so is Prowl.”

“All the more reason to back Kup up.”

Springer chuckled,

“He’d smack you if he heard you saying that,” he added more seriously, “According to Kup, the spots for the mission have already been filled.”

“So we stowaway,” Roadbuster shrugged, “It’s not like Prime will order us back to Cybertron once we get there.”

“There’s no telling what he’ll do with Prowl in his audials,” Springer frowned, “And I don’t like the idea of being tried for misconduct on Cybertron. Not with Starscream’s running the place.”

“I can’t believe they elected a Con,” Roadbuster scoffed, “And not just any Con. Starscream. His designation is syn... syn. What's the word? Synonymous with treachery.”

“That’s the new world we’re living in,” Springer ex-vented, “Makes me think Impactor did the right thing, taking off when he did.”

Roadbuster hesitated before offering up his second option on the list.

“We could go after him.”

Springer stared off into space pensively,

“I had considered it,” he confessed, “But I think it would do more harm than good.”

He didn’t say to who. Roadbuster didn’t inquire. He simply scratched Impactor off the list.

“What about the Lost Light?”

Springer’s large blue optics turned back to him,

“The Lost Light?”

“Word is Rodimus is grounded until after the trial. I bet he and Magnus would take us on.”

Springer rubbed his chin contemplatively,

“You’re probably right,” he said, “But the Lost Light might be a one-way ticket to nowhere. You would be up for that?”

“Compared to taking orders from Starscream or Prowl?” Roadbuster answered, “Sounds like paradise.”

Springer laughed,

“You’re not wrong.”

Still he hadn’t stated a definite yes.

“A few of the old team are on board,” Roadbuster went on, “Percy. Blaster…”

“Whirl.”

Roadbuster curled his fist,

“If he even came near us, I’d make him regret it.”

“No,” Springer said firmly, “If we joined the Lost Light, we’d make peace with Whirl.”

“Are you serious?” Roadbuster cried, “After what he tried to…”

“I know,” Springer’s voice was soft, “And believe me, it’ll be awkward the first time I see him. But we can’t start a new mission carrying that grudge.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Roadbuster said reluctantly.

A part of him knew forgiving Whirl was nigh impossible. But he would tolerate him, if that’s what Springer wanted. After all Springer had been the one almost euthanized.

“So the Lost Light then?” he asked Springer hopefully.

“It does seem to be the best option,” the triple-changer said.

He still seemed to weighing the decision however.

“I hear that medic’s on board too,” Roadbuster added, “Your former contact in Delphi. What did you used to call him?”

Springer actually seemed embarrassed.

“My cute red bot in Delphi,” he said, “But don’t tell him that.”

“You mean when I see him,” Roadbuster said, “Because we’re definitely joining the Lost Light?”

Springer broke into a grin. The daring grin Roadbuster hadn’t seen for cycles. The grin that told Roadbuster they were headed for adventure.

“Yes we are, partner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this AU obviously. I wish Springer had joined the Lost Light. Then he could frag First Aid *sigh* OTP


	5. Rung & Froid (Pre-War)

“Bah, stop doing that,” Froid complained.

“Doing what?” Rung asked, “You mean my glasses?”

“Taking them off and doing that cute squinty look.”

A hint of a smile graced Rung’s lips. 

“I can’t help squinting,” he said.

Froid leaned over their research.

“But it makes me want to kiss you.”

“Well why don’t you?” Rung dared him softly.

Froid gestured at his mouthpiece,

“How would I do that dearest?”

Rung didn’t answer. He pressed a gentle kiss to Froid’s mouthpiece.

“Just when I had you pegged as a B21,” Froid tutted in reproach, “You’re jeopardizing my whole classification system. Acting like a B26.”

“My apologies,” Rung smiled as he went to move away.

Froid caught him.

“I didn’t say stop.”

**

“You’re missing the point,” Froid was complaining, “Even you can’t argue that a P.A. is not a compassionate treatment for…”

Rung had heard this argument more than once. He removed his glasses wearily.

“Would you stop that!” Froid demanded.

Rung’s frown deepened,

“You mean my glasses?” 

“It’s distracting,” Froid threw up his hands, “We’re in the middle of a discussion and you interrupt with that insufferable quirk.”

“You liked it once,” Rung found himself saying. 

Froid was silent a moment,

“Things change,” he said finally.

The words twisted in Rung’s spark.

“I suppose they do.”


	6. Froid & Trepan (Post-Messatine)

"Don't pout like that," Froid sighed, "It's such an irksome trait among mecha with lip components."

Trepan huffed. They were in their assigned quarters on route back to Cybertron.

"I don't like unfinished business," he grumbled, "I was inside his mind Froid."

"I know," Froid said dully, "But the situation was beyond our control."

"All because of _him_ ," Trepan's voice was full of spite.

"Rung couldn't have intervened if the law hadn't been changed," Froid reminded him, "He did travel to Messatine under the naive possibility he might agree with my judgement."

Trepan's optics widened,

"You're actually defending him?"

"Not defending him per se. Merely pointing out that Rung wasn't solely responsible for these turn of events."

Trepan crossed his arms,

"Oh please. Don't tell me it wasn't his word in a certain senator's audials that brought about the new law."

"There's no evidence of that," Froid said.

Trepan's mouth formed a sneer,

"Oh Froid, you really _do_ have a flicker of affection left for the spectacled nuisance."

"Nonsense," Froid said dismissively.

"Denial," Trepan's sneer grew wider, "I can see that and I'm not even a psychologist."

"Must we do this?" Froid said wearily, "Proteus is not going to be happy to have us report failure. Can't we spend the duration of the journey in peace?"

"But there is no peace," Trepan said, "Not for us, not anymore. Your _friend_ made sure of that. You said yourself, you two never agree."

His hand grasped Froid's arm.

"He's a risk to both our livelihoods Froid. We need to deal with him."

"How?" Froid asked dubiously.

Trepan pulled his hand back, revealing his mnemo needles.

"Persuasion," he answered.

Froid stepped away from him,

"No," he said, "It's unethical. Rung may have mistaken ideas but he's of sound mind. He's not a candidate for Personality Adjustment."

"Not even for the greater good?" Trepan argued, "Think, Froid, all those countless unstable minds, who will suffer because Rung will refuse to give his signature."

He wriggled his fingers,

"Some slight tinkering from me would be all that's needed. To persuade Rung that your - _our_ \- way is best."

Froid stared at the mnemo needles. It was a tempting solution. But not one he could condone. Not to Rung, regardless of the bad energon between them.

"No," he told Trepan, "Utilizing a P.A. for our own advantage, its abuse. It would only be proving Rung right."

Trepan scowled.

"So you'll let him undermine us?"

"Consider it an exercise in patience," Froid answered, "Personality Adjustment is a revolutionary treatment. Rung will either see that, or he'll be ousted by popular opinion."

Trepan sheathed his needles with a sigh,

"If you say so," his voice dripped with disbelief, "But my offer stands, for Rung and you as well, dear Froid."

Froid was taken aback.

"What do you mean?"

Trepan's hand came to rest of the side of Froid's faceplate.

"It must be painful, being at odds with your former colleague, with whom you so very, _very_ close. So close in fact he helped you with your research."

The delicate fingers edged towards the top of Froid's helm,

"I could take the pain away," he whispered, "Any lingering trace of feeling. You'll be better for it, I promise you."

Froid caught Trepan's hand and pulled it away.

"I respectfully decline," he said politely.

As much as he could see the convenience, of forgetting how Rung's smile used to warm his spark, his adorable squint when he removed his glasses, how they used to talk for cycles on psychological theory, back when their opinions ran in exciting tandem, Froid knew to erase all that was as much an abuse of a P.A. as it was to force one on Rung.

Trepan's frown of disappointment was fleeting,

"Very well," he said airily, "It's your mind. Open your interface panel."

The last words took Froid by such surprise he released Trepan's hand.

"I beg your pardon?"

This time it was Trepan's whole frame that pressed against him.

"If I can't interface with your mind," he purred, "I'll settle for your body."

His hands worked their way over Froid's seams.

"You said yourself, we should spend the rest of the journey in peace. Fragging is such excellent stress relief, wouldn't you agree?"

Froid might have objected on the grounds of professional boundaries. But he had abandoned that principal the first time he and Rung had kissed in his office.

But that had been an emotional affair as well as physical.

Not a meaningless frag.

Not what Trepan was offering.

But then, after Rung, Froid wanted to avoid emotional attachment.

Focus on his work. Trepan was a mech who could understand that. He was capable of detachment. In Froid's opinion, a little _too_ capable.

Trepan put his mouth on Froid's audial and gave the rim a teasing lick,

"Open your panel Froid, and I'll put my mouth to better use than pouting."

If Froid had to ascribe any personality type to Trepan, it would be B16.

Intelligent. Articulate. Driven. Charismatic with manipulative tendencies.

It was the latter that concerned Froid.

It wasn't the best idea letting him get this close.

Allow him to hold this over him.

But in spite of his reservations, Froid complied.

Trepan dropped to his knees with a practiced grace.

Rung had been a mistake. One discovered over the passage of time.

Trepan was also a mistake. One more quickly realized.

All the same Froid let Trepan's mouth envelope him eagerly.

Because one way or the other, Froid wanted to forget. Just for a little while.

He wanted to forget Rung.


	7. Trailcutter & Co. (Ofsted XVII)

"Wow, this would be a great place to film a movie," Bluestreak proclaimed, "Look at the mountain backdrop."

"We're not here to film a movie," First Aid reminded him, "We're here to hopefully rendezvous with the others."

"I know," Bluestreak sighed, "But it's a shame to waste such awesome scenery."

He was hit with a moment of inspiration.

"We should take a selfie."

"A selfie?" Trailcutter glanced up from his datapad.

"It's a human term. When you take a photo of yourself."

"I thought that was called a Rodimus," First Aid said dryly.

"Well Rodimus calls it a Rodimus," Mainframe said, "Only because he thinks he invented the art of posing."

"Blue, you shouldn't stand so close to the edge," Trailcutter warned the film enthusiast.

Bluestreak was trying to work out the best angle to take the photo. He waved away Trailcutter's concern.

"I'm being careful."

"You realize if you fall to your death, that's going on your coffin," Mainframe quipped, "'I'm being careful'."

"No one is falling to their death," First Aid said sharply, "Bluestreak move back from the edge. Trails is still the head of security so you should listen to him."

"Yeah and he could also break my fall with a forcefield," Bluestreak pointed out, "In fact that would look really cool if we filmed it."

"No," Trailcutter and First Aid said in unison.

Bluestreak grinned as he moved back from the edge.

"Alright," he assumed a professional air, "If we all stand here, we should avoid glare of the sun and get in as much as of the mountain as possible."

He was greeted with silence. 

"What are we waiting for people? Chop chop."

"I don't like photos," Trailcutter protested, "I always make weird faces."

"That's because up until recently you were overcharged," Bluestreak said, "Everyone takes a bad photo when they're overcharged. C'mon, this is for posterity."

Trailcutter rose to his feet with a sigh. He went to turn off his datapad.

"Woah big guy," Bluestreak snatched the datapad, "This thing got a camera?"

"I think so. I've never used it."

"Aha it does," Bluestreak confirmed, "Good, it will give us a better picture than if I used my communicator. Okay people, line up."

But even his teammates couldn't do that properly.

"No, Mainframe you switch with First Aid. First Aid, you're small so you stand in front..."

"Small? We're practically the same height Bluestreak."

"Just trust me okay, I know what I'm doing. There's method in my madness."

"Madness is right," Mainframe said, "Bluestreak it's just a photo. You're not the next... I wanna say Rewind but it seems in poor taste."

Bluestreak felt the team's collective mood plummet.

"Good one Lameframe, mention something really sad before we take our picture."

"Sorry."

"Maybe this isn't a good idea," First Aid said.

He attempted to move away but Bluestreak pushed him back.

"C'mon guys. Rewind might be no longer with us. And some of the others. But we're alive. In this small patch of paradise. So let's just... Force some smiles. For your pal Blue. Please."

He gave them a pleading grin.

"Fine by me," Mainframe said after a beat, "I have a faceplate so you won't tell I'm crying on the inside."

Then he let out a strange, somewhat self-conscious giggle. It struck Bluestreak as funny and he started laughing. Mainframe soon joined him.

"Why is that funny?" First Aid asked.

Trailcutter was smiling,

"I really don't know."

Bluestreak managed to rein in his laughter,

"Okay good. We're all cheered up. Let's take this picture."

But that was easier said than done. Even with everyone positioned the way Bluestreak wanted, he couldn't quite position the datapad in front of them to get the perfect shot.

"My arm's aren't long enough," he grumbled.

"Is there a timer function?" Mainframe asked, "You could just set it down instead of holding it."

"And get a great shot of our pedes? There's no place to prop it up."

"I'll take the picture," Trailcutter offered, "I don't mind not being in it."

Bluestreak pouted. He had wanted it to be a proper group shot. But he didn't see any other way around it.

But being the perfectionist he made Trailcutter take multiple snaps before he was happy with the result. By that time the other two were fed up with posing.

"Can I go exploring now?" First Aid grumbled.

"Not yet," Bluestreak's answer caused him to groan, "Trails, you go stand with First Aid. We need to have at least one shot of you."

While Trailcutter complied, Bluestreak motioned furtively for Mainframe to move off to the side. The action didn't go unnoticed however.

"Aren't you going to be in the photo Mainframe?" 

"Nah. I'm done posing."

"Trails, put your arm around First Aid," Bluestreak said.

He tried not to grin too much as the pair's look of embarrassment.

"I don't think..." Trailcutter began.

"C'mon it'll look nice," Bluestreak crooned, "You don't mind do you First Aid."

"No," First Aid said meekly, "It's fine."

Trailcutter hesitated before roping his arm around First Aid. 

Mainframe moved to Bluestreak's side.

"Aw they look cute don't they."

"Adorable."

"Take the damn picture," First Aid ordered.

Bluestreak obeyed. The pair came apart awkwardly and moved over to see the photo.

"It's nice," Trailcutter mumbled with a small hint of a smile.

"Yeah it's nice," First Aid agreed softly.

"So you recognize that I am an artistic genius?" Bluestreak asked.

Silence.

"I'm going to explore," First Aid announced.

"Do you want me to come with you?" Trailcutter asked.

"I'll be fine," First Aid assured him.

He glanced at Bluestreak who was now sulking. 

::You watch the idiots.:: he told Trailcutter over private comm.

::Roger,:: Trailcutter grinned before settling back down against the mountain face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cuz I ship Trails/Aid and their cuteness, even though it breaks my heart ;-;


	8. Trailbreaker & Roller (Alyon)

"Where's Trailbreaker?" Orion asked, "Is he recharging?"

"Nah," Windcharger answered, "Me and Glitch saw him leave the Dugout a while ago."

"Did he state his reason?"

"Something about communing with the sparks."

"No Windcharger, you gotta say it like this," Glitch repeated the sentence with air quotes, "'Communing with the sparks'."

"We shouldn't mock our friend's spirituality," Orion said sternly, "All the same, Roller could you check on him?"

Roller sighed. What did he look like, a sparkling-sitter? Perhaps so, it wasn't like he could match the Outliers for power so he was resigned to nannying them.

Orion seemed to sense his reluctance.

::He's fond of you.:: he said privately.

Roller grimaced. Suddenly checking on Trailbreaker seemed preferable to analyzing that statement.

"On it," he said wearily.

He ventured out of the Dugout in search of Trailbreaker. He found him on the fringe of the hot spot, flat on his aft, a bottle of Nightmare Fuel in his lap.

Communing with sparks? Glitch's air quotes had been appropriate.

This was a booze-up.

Trailbreaker didn't even notice Roller's presence, staring out into the hot spot in a happy daze.

"Don't let Orion catch you with that stuff."

Trailbreaker almost toppled sideways.

"You scared me," he managed to steady himself and grinned.

Roller frowned. If he was Pax, Trailbreaker would have been spluttering apologies for his behavior.

But Roller, he received a cheeky, unapologetic grin.

That pretty much summed up the level of respect the Outliers had for him.

"Heeey," Trailbreaker slurred, "What's wrong, frown-y face?"

"You," Roller sighed, "Getting charged up on Nightmare Fuel. Near the sparks we're trying to protect.”

Trailbreaker's face contorted in protest,

"I'd never hurt them," he said, "'Sides I like it here. It's peaceful. Good place to think."

"Think, or drink?" Roller deadpanned.

Trailbreaker giggled,

"Both."

"Well usually those two activities don't work too well together."

Trailbreaker stared up at him, expressive mouth quirked, almost sweetly.

"Ya know what Roller. I think... I think you're really wise."

That took Roller by surprise.

"I doubt it," he said dryly, "But thanks."

He found himself sitting down next to him. He wasn't sure why. Perhaps because if he took him back to the Dugout, Orion would scold him. Which was probably what Trailbreaker deserved. But Roller decided to cut him some slack.

The guy didn't look like he was about to go on an overcharged rampage through the hot spot. In fact the Outlier looked, well, serene. 

He had resumed staring out at the sparks.

"Alright I'll bite," Roller said, "What are you thinking about?"

"About the sparks," Trailbreaker said excitedly, "Whether they might be Outliers like us."

Roller grimaced.

Like us?

"I'm not an Outlier," he reminded Trailbreaker, "I don't have a special ability."

Trailbreaker glanced at him with a pout.

"But you're super strong."

"That's different," Roller sighed, "A lot of mecha are strong. Not a lot of them create forcefields."

Trailbreaker looked down at his hands,

"Sometimes I wish I wasn't the only one."

"Why?" Roller said, "It makes you unique."

Trailbreaker's mouth drew into a tight little frown,

"Unique?" he said, "Unique is 'nother word for alone."

Alone, Roller wanted to scoff at him. Trailbreaker didn't know what it was like to be alone. He wasn't a non-Outlier in a group of Outliers.

Okay, technically Pax wasn't an Outlier either. But he was the leader. He provided much more to the group than super strength.

But as far as Trailbreaker was concerned, he was an Outlier, plain and simple. He fit in with the rest of them in a way Roller never could.

But Trailbreaker looked too miserable for Roller to bluntly state this fact.

"You're not alone Trailbreaker," he said, "What about Skids, Glitch and Windcharger?"

Trailbreaker shook his helm,

"They can't do what I do. No one can do what I can do."

He pointed a wobbly finger at the hot spot,

"But if one of these guys could make forcefields, that would be neat," his lips formed a tremulous smile, "There would be someone like me. Someone who unnerstands..."

"Understands what?" Roller pressed.

Trailbreaker's mouth reverted into a frown,

"Shockwave used to say I was special. I used to like it. It made me feel good. But then I realized. I was only special because of what I could do. Not who I was."

He slammed his hands to his visor,

"It's like nobody can see past the forcefields. They don't see me… You don't see me."

"I see you Trails," Roller said.

"No you don't!" Trailbreaker cried, "If you did, you would see... See how much I like you."

Roller froze. Orion's voice rang in his processor.

He's fond of you.

Now he understood. Primus, he understood.

All those times Trailbreaker had asked him what he was doing or asked for a sip of his Kremzeek.

And Roller shut him down every time, loath to an Outlier hanging around him, reminding him of his inferiority, discovering his dependency on C32.

Trailbreaker lowered his hands with a look of horror,

"Slag," he moaned, "Why did I say that? Why do I say stuff when I drink?"

"It's okay," Roller said distractedly.

"No it's not," Trailbreaker whined, "You must think I'm an idiot. Frag, stupid slagging..."

"Trailbreaker," Roller cut over the top of him, "I'm the idiot okay."

That was enough to silence the other mech. He stared at Roller with a pitiable expression.

"I..." Roller wasn't sure how to begin, "I get caught up in my own processor. A lot. It stops me seeing things that are right in front of my optics. Which, considering I used to be a cop, is pretty damn pathetic."

He reached out and grasped him by the shoulder,

"But I do see you Trails. You're a good kid. That has nothing to do with your ability."

Trailbreaker's mouth lifted in a tentative smile.

"So you'll hang out with me?"

"That's what we're doing isn't it?" Roller said, "But maybe no more Nightmare Fuel."

He plucked the bottle from Trailbreaker's lap. The Outlier didn’t protest. He seemed content enough to return to his spark-watching. Roller followed his lead, staring out at the sea of blue dotting the landscape.

"I think you're right,” he said, "It's pretty peaceful out here."

Trailbreaker shot him a happy grin,

“Nicer with company.”

“Yeah,” Roller agreed, "Which one do you think could be a forcefield specialist?"

“Hmm,” Trailbreaker scrutinized the landscape a moment, “Maybe that one.”

This was accompanied by a vague finger point.

"Which one?" Roller asked.

"The blue one in the middle."

"They're all blue."

"The more blue-y blue one," Trailbreaker answered, "Do you see it?"

Roller glanced at the other mech with a slight smile,

"Yeah I see it."


	9. Megatron, Overlord & Trepan (During War)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just an idea I had for how Trepan died. Warning: gore and death.

"Thinker or fighter?"

On his knees, Trepan stared fearfully up at Megatron. No words came.

"That's what you said to me on Messatine,” Megatron went on, “Before you forced yourself inside my mind.”

Trepan glanced over pleadingly at Overlord. His student stood off to the side, lips pressed together.

“Don’t look at him,” Megatron said sharply, “He roped you into this folly but he won’t get you out of it. I asked you a question.”

Trepan whimpered as a strong hand clamped down on his helm,

“But I don’t need to pry inside your mind for an answer Trepan. You’re not a fighter.”

Megatron’s tone was heavy with contempt.

“You’re a thinker. A conniving, manipulative, sadistic little thinker. Traits I might have appreciated. If I didn’t already have such a person in my ranks.”

“Please,” Trepan whispered, as he felt fingers denting his helm, “I…”

“It’s not so amusing is it,” Megatron growled, “To be at another person’s mercy.”

A sob cracked from Trepan’s vocaliser.

“Please. I beg you. Overlord forced me to teach him. I wanted nothing to do with it!”

“Is that so?” Megatron drawled, “And all the so-called Personality Adjustments, you were _forced_ to inflict them?”

“Yes,” Trepan nodded desperately, “The senate. Zeta. They gave me no choice.”

“And you think I will be more merciful?” Megatron intoned, “That I will allow you to choose, life or death?"

“I could be useful to you," Trepan sought to persuade him, "I swear it. I can access the minds of your followers, root out any hint of treacherous thoughts.”

“You refer to Overlord I assume.”

Trepan flinched as Megatron leaned down ever so slightly,

“You presume I cannot tell what goes on inside my follower’s minds. Well, _Trepan_ , I have no need of mnemosurgery to accomplish that. Overlord’s problem isn’t treachery. It’s obsession.”

“Obsession," Trepan stammered.

Megatron smiled and terror was heavy against Trepan’s spark.

"Would you like a demonstration?"

He straightened, gaze shifting to Overlord. He was looking bored.

"Overlord," Megatron called to him, "I want you to rip open Trepan’s helm and crush his brain.”

For a split second Trepan dared to hope Overlord would refuse. Trepan had been more than his prisoner, his teacher. 

But then Overlord’s sensual lips parted and he answered, with alarming indifference,

“Yeah alright.”

Trepan was so shocked he felt numb. After all the times they had interfaced, all the times Trepan had recharged locked between two powerful arms.

And now Overlord was walking over with the intent to kill him.

No, this wasn’t happening.

Trepan felt Megatron release his helm. He could have tried to run. But he had seen Overlord in action to know running wasn’t an option.

Trepan’s only hope was to appeal to him.

"Overlord," he begged the approaching giant, "Please. You're strong. Kill him instead. You and I, we’ll be unstoppable. I’ll keep teaching you. Please Overlord.”

Overlord’s shadow fell over him, dark and all consuming.

"Sorry Doctor," his lover’s voice was poisonously sweet, "It was fun while it lasted..."

Before Trepan could scramble back Overlord’s hands locked onto his helm. Fingers broke effortlessly through plating. Trepan screamed as the top of his helm was prized open.

"But a relationship like ours always had an expiry date...”

Through the disorientating pain, Trepan felt Overlord’s fingers close around his brain module.

"I could tell you this doesn't bring me any joy..." 

Those sinfully beautiful lips curved in mockery,

"But I'd be lying.”

Trepan’s mouth fell open. But Overlord’s hand was quicker.

He always had to have the last word. The last words Trepan would ever hear.


	10. Trailbreaker & Roller (Alyon) II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Trails/Roller cuz I ship it so freakin' hard...
> 
> Also because I woke up drooling on myself and thought of Trails

Roller onlined to the sensation of liquid seeping across his chestplate. It took him a split second to realize it was oral lubricant leaking from Trailbreaker’s open mouth.

“Ugh! Trails,” he shook the Outlier, “Trails wake up.”

Trailbreaker onlined groggily,

“Wuh?” his helm lifted off Roller’s chest, “Wuz’s goin’ on?”

“You’re drooling all over me.”

Trailbreaker stiffened. He touched the side of his mouth, staring down at the pool of mess he created on Roller.

His EM field buzzed with distress.

“Slag,” he groaned, “I didn’t mean to – it happens when I recharge with my helm at certain angle.”

“So it’s got nothing to do with the nightcap you sneak before recharge?”

“No I swear,” Trailbreaker protested, “It’s…”

He clamped his hands over his visor,

“I’m sorry for being gross.”

The pitiful timber in his voice tugged at Roller’s spark.

“Hey,” he gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze, “It’s not that bad. I’ve been covered in worse.”

Trailbreaker lowered his hands meekly,

“You’re not mad?”

Roller couldn’t say he was. It had been an unpleasant way to the start the cycle. But it was hard to stay mad at someone who beat himself up like Trailbreaker did.

“No,” he assured him, “But I do need a trip to the washracks.”

Trailbreaker’s mouth tightened in a frown.

“I’ll let you up,” he mumbled.

Roller caught hold of him,

“Let me rephrase that, _we_ need a trip to the washracks.”

“We?” Trailbreaker echoed.

“I’m not the only one with drool all over me.”

It was still smeared over half Trailbreaker’s face. He rubbed at it self-consciously with the back of his hand.

“Not good enough,” Roller said, “You and me need a thorough clean.”

“Together?”

Roller smiled at Trailbreaker’s hopeful request for confirmation.

“Pax said we have to conserve our solvent reserves. I think we’d be doing him a favor by showering together.”

Trailbreaker broke into a grin,

“Yeah, a big favor,” he enthused, "We can do more than cleaning right?”

Roller chuckled. He hoisted him upright.

“C’mon kid. Before your drool seeps permanently into my seams.”


	11. Windcharger, Trails & Roller (Alyon)

Windcharger frowned as the door to the dugout's only washracks didn't open on command. He tried again. Nothing.

"Glitch," he shouted across the dugout, "Have you been screwing around with the washrack door?"

"No," came a shout of reply, "Why?"

"The fraggin' door is busted," Windcharger tried wrenching it open to no avail.

"Well I didn't do it!" Glitch shouted.

"Yeah you said!"

"Stop yelling," Skids interjected from somewhere in the dugout, "Some of us are trying to read."

"Well some of us are tryin' to get clean," Windcharger retorted, "Nerd."

"Ignoramus," Skids countered.

"Smelly," Glitch chimed in gleefully.

Windcharger bit back the retort of 'ugly'. Glitch was sensitive about his appearance. Being an empurata and all. He had dobbed Windcharger into Orion when the other Outlier had called him a 'one-eyed slagface'. Granted Windcharger hadn't meant it seriously. The pair had been sledging each other during a sparring match. But Windcharger had still faced a lecture from Orion.

"You're a team and you need to be civil to each other."

Orion had also said,

"No powers in the dugout unless we are under attack or training."

But Windcharger saw no other way of forcing the door open. He powered up his arms and began to wrench the door open. It gave way a fraction but no more. 

"What the frag?" he grit through his denta, increasing the voltage.

The door whined in protest. But it still only gave way in tiny increments. Windcharger was starting to get annoyed. Most enemies would have been torn to pieces by now.

"Stupid. Fraggin’. Door."

He threw his all into wrenching it open, powers at maximum. The door squealed in protest, rattling on its hinges. But it still didn't fall open. Windcharger could feel an unknown force pushing against his electro-magnetic fields.

He couldn't discern what it was. But it was fighting him to keep the door locked.

Windcharger fought back, unwilling to admit defeat. Still it came as a surprise when the door finally gave way, groaning off it's axis. It surprised Windcharger so much he reeled backwards. One hand, still powered by electromagnetic current, steadied him, propelling him upright.

He glanced at the state of the door. Slag, he was in trouble when Orion saw this.

How was he gonna fix it. It was easier with Sentinel's goons, he never had to patch them up after he ripped off their arms.

"Sorry," a voice cut through his discontent, almost barely audible due to the sound of still gushing solvents, "I c-couldn't hold it any longer."

"'s okay," another voice, "You did good."

Windcharger hastened to peer into the gap left by the unhinged door. Through the rain of solvent, he caught sight of Roller and Trailbreaker. The latter on all fours, Roller pressed against his back.

The position itself was rather telling. Windcharger didn't really need the evidence of transfluid dripping onto the washrack floor, mixing with solvent before disappearing down the drain.

The pair noticed him too. Trails' expression more guilty than Roller's. He squirmed a little, stilling only when Roller's fingers stroked his hips in a comforting gesture. Meanwhile his optics bored into Windcharger in a rather intimidating fashion.

It did little to stop the Outlier breaking into a grin.

He turned his helm to shout gleefully,

"Glitch, my bad. It was Trails. He and Roller were in here fra-mmmffff...."

A small bubble had lodged inside Windcharger's mouth, muffling his speech. He glared at Trails, knowing by his tight-lipped expression and lift of one hand that he had silenced him with a mini-forcefield.

Now it was Roller who smiled,

"Nice trick."

The forcefield faltered somewhat as Trails smiled at the praise.

"Yeah. It's a bit easier when I'm not distracted by an overload."

Roller's smile became more feral as he ground his hips deliberately against Trailbreaker's aft. The Outlier let out a whine, Windcharger once again feeling the forcefield's stability fluctuate. But not dissolve, and he was left mute and in agony as he watched Roller rut against Trailbreaker.

The discomfort wasn't from arousal either. The forcefield was causing his jaw to ache.

His optics locked with Roller's, pleading.

But the heavyweight didn't seem interested in forgiveness.

"Move that door back before Orion sees," he ordered in his no-nonsense cop voice, "Next time it won't open you might want to think why before you go all gung-ho with your magic arms."

With his vocaliser compromised, Windcharger pinged Roller a message over his comm.

::But I want a shower::

"Wait your turn," Roller replied aloud, "We all have to be courteous of each other's privacy."

He was quoting Orion. Orion who would be upset at Windcharger for breaking the door to the washracks. Windcharger doubted very much he would accept the excuse that "I couldn't open the door because Trails and Roller were fragging in the washracks and keeping the door shut with a forcefield".

Grudgingly he left the pair to what would no doubt be another round of fragging and shifted the door back across the entrance as best he could. It was still off its axle but Windcharger wasn't a door mechanic.

If Orion asked he would plead ignorance. Perhaps their leader would stumble across the damaged door momentarily, walk in on Trails and Roller and assume that they had broken it during interface.

That made Windcharger feel a little better as he slunk away to a quiet corner. He didn't want Glitch or anyone else to see his mouth lodged open due a mini forcefield.

A short while later it dissolved. Windcharger wasn't sure if Trails had taken pity on him or been distracted by a secondary overload. 

One thing was for certain. In the future he would knock.


	12. Springer & First Aid (En Route to the Lost Light)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Super angsty First Aid/Springer. Because I tried to picture their reunion being happy and I couldn't see it working out like that.
> 
> Spoilers for The Transformers 44 and MTMTE 43. Also AU because of Springer joining the Lost Light and liberties taken with the identity of Agent 113. I personally believe it's Vos but who knows.

First Aid had sometimes fantasized what it would be like to bump into Springer again. It had always been a happy reunion in his processor. But when he had discovered Springer onboard the shuttle returning the Protectobots and Mirage to the Lost Light, reality took a sharp turn from his fantasy.

There had been surprise, definitely. First Aid had been kept in the dark about Springer and Roadbuster joining the Lost Light. And there had been elation as Springer explained his presence to First Aid.

But that elation had quickly curdled. First Aid’s processor jumped to what he might be returning to – if Velocity had indeed retrieved a message from Agent 113. He thought of the lecture theatre on Ofsted XVII, Trailcutter’s brain module being smashed fatally against his force field.

Suddenly First Aid found himself taking to Springer in a way he never done before. No stammer, shyness, no desperation in his tone for Springer to like him. His voice was hard and demanding.

“Who is Agent 113?”

It caught Springer off-guard. The fact he wasn’t expecting the question only incensed First Aid more. Did Springer think he didn’t care, after Trailcutter’s death, after the death of everyone on the duplicate Lost Light?

“Tell me,” he shouted, “Primus, Springer, tell me! I looked out for his messages for cycles. I deserve to know!”

Roadbuster tried to intervene. Now wasn’t the time for this conversation. Springer silenced him with a hand, expression solemn. He answered with one word.

“Vos.”

First Aid barely felt himself fall to his knees. He barely felt his gestalt clustering around him in concern.

The one he had refused to save. The one Trailcutter had insisted on saving. If he had only known, known Vos was secretly an Autobot, that he deserved his energon transfusion. He still would have attacked to save face but at least First Aid would have known that Vos’ aggression was more act than intent.

He wouldn’t have let Trails stay behind in a force field. Trapped with another DJD member who well and truly meant to kill him. Eviscerating him with sadistic pleasure.

Trailcutter might still be alive. If First Aid had known Vos was the agent.

“You should have told me,” his vocaliser cracked horribly as he stared up at Springer, “Why didn’t you ever think to tell me? Trails… Trails…”

He couldn’t force the words out. The guilt bearing down on him was so immense. Springer wasn’t the only one to blame.

First Aid could have demanded Vos’ identity sooner. Even stationed on Delphi he could have requested it. Even before agreeing to the mission he should have asked for it.

But he had been so star-struck by Springer, too desperate to please him, become affiliated with him. He had happily kept a look out for insignias, elated when he found that telltale mark that meant he could call Springer, see his handsome face on his screen, eating up his praise and gratitude.

First Aid was sickened as he remembered the insignias on his wall. Ambulon had been right. He had been obsessed. Obsessed with his mission, obsessed with Springer, blindly obeying without considering the consequences of his ignorance.

Trails’ death was on his hands.

Because of his hero worship, his desire for Springer to like him.

His fault.

But he was too far gone to express it. Only sob as his gestalt physically lifted him off the floor and carried him to another part of the shuttle, away from Springer. First Aid took one bleary glance at him as they went. His face was shadowed, downcast, shoulders drooping.

He had never seen Springer look so small.

His gestalt continued to cling to him. When First Aid managed to get his vocaliser under control, he tried to assure them he was fine. But his gestalt knew better. They had been inside his mind as he had been inside theirs. They continued to cradle him. First Aid felt a desperate longing to combine. To shift into collective consciousness, where his thoughts were no longer so acute and painful.

But there was no room on the shuttle to form Defensor. First Aid also knew that it was better to confront his own issues than use combining as a crutch, a means to loose himself. After a while he calmed, nestled between Hot Spot and Groove.

“I have to talk to Springer,” he announced softly.

His gestalt were reluctant,

“You don’t have to.”

“Not right away.”

“Maybe give it more time.”

But First Aid was resolute. He didn’t want this sense of conflict hanging over him. Not with Springer. Not when he had practically forced all the blame on him.

His gestalt let him go. The bond between them was unlike anything First Aid had ever experienced. But he, like all of them, understood that they were still individuals, able to make their own choices, as they had before the Enigma of Combination had combined them into Defensor.

It was Roadbuster who blocked his path when he approached Springer.

“I just want to talk,” he assured the other Wrecker.

“You did enough talking before,” Roadbuster answered.

First Aid understood his protectiveness. Roadbuster had been the one to watch over Springer during his coma, had been the one to wake him from it.

“RB,” Springer said quietly, “Let him through. We’re not done.”

Roadbuster reluctantly shuffled aside. But as First Aid moved past, a massive hand came to rest on his shoulder,

“He cares about you, little red bot,” he murmured, “It’s the reason we’re here. Know you’re angry. But I want you to know that.”

The words shot to First Aid’s spark. He nodded shakily. The hand lifted and RB left the room.

First Aid ventured closer to Springer. He was hunched over in a seat that was hardly designed for a mech of his frame. Large hands gripping his knees. He held First Aid’s gaze, mouth a sad straight line.

Neither of them spoke. The air around them was awkward. Not with anger but with regret.

“I’m sorry,” First Aid forced out, “I shouldn’t have lost it like that.”

“No, you had every right,” Springer said, “I should have told you.”

First Aid didn’t know how to process the admission. With the weight of his own guilt it did little to sooth him.

He felt more compelled to defend Springer.

“It was probably classified.”

“Yes,” Springer admitted, “But I’d bent the rules before. I bent the rules to even recruit you. You deserved honesty First Aid and I let you down. I let Trails down.”

First Aid watched powerful fingers wrench Springer’s knee spikes.

“He was a good guy. One of the best. He saved Kup on Tsiehshi. He didn’t deserve to go out the way he did. With you watching.”

Springer’s vocaliser broke in a pitiful way had First Aid had never heard before.

“I’m so sorry Aid,” he whispered, “I…”

First Aid’s hands closed over Springer’s own, stilling their movement.

“Me too,” he said, “I could have asked for Agent 113’s identity at any time. But I didn’t. I have to live with that. Neither of us can change what happened to Trails. But you’re here now, between the two of us we can make this right.”

Springer stared at him with those shockingly blue optics. First Aid watched the sadness slip away, replaced by hardened resolve.

He nodded.

“We’ll make it right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear the next First Aid/Springer thing I'll write will be cute and fluffy.


	13. Springer & First Aid (Lost Light)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I promised you fluffy Springer/First Aid

Springer’s fingers felt incredible, pushing inside First Aid’s valve. Usually he would be moaning and writhing on the cusp of overload.

But he was so tired.

He had finished a long shift at the medibay. Velocity had deserved some time off after going it alone while he returned to Cybertron. She had been reluctant but First Aid had ushered her out of the medibay with a Ratchet-like sternness.

After what seemed like an eternity, she had returned to take over. First Aid had stumbled back to his quarters to find Springer lying on his berth. He had flopped down next to him.

“Frag me,” he had sighed.

Springer had grinned.

“Okay.”

His enthusiasm had excited First Aid at first. The heavy strokes on his panel, then his valve, teasing, probing. But weariness soon descended back over him, a reading on his HUD that he ignored, though he shut down all unnecessary systems. His helm rested against Springer’s shoulder, optics dimmed as the green mech continued to work his fingers inside his valve.

It was nice filling feeling. But First Aid wasn’t sure if he could produce an overload. Not that he had the spark to tell Springer. He simply reclined against him, comfortable and pliant. It was only when he dully felt the fingers leave his valve that he squirmed.

“Why’d you stop?” his vocaliser was sluggish to his audio.

Springer chuckled,

“You’re about to fall asleep on me.”

With some difficulty First Aid lifted his helm off Springer’s shoulder,

“No I’m fine,” he insisted, “Keep going.”

“Nah,” Springer answered, “We’ll pick things up later.”

He maneuvered First Aid on his side and pulled him against his chestplate. First Aid couldn’t help feeling relieved. He offlined his optics, enjoying the comforting warmth of Springer’s embrace.

“Sweet dreams Doc.”

“Mmm,” First Aid managed sleepily, “Love you.”

He fell into recharge before he could hear Springer's reply, "Love you too".


	14. Trepan (Pre-War/During War)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More Trepan and Overlord (mostly Trepan) evilness.
> 
> Thanks to Apricots_from_Nara. The last section was inspired by your comment that Trepan convinced Overlord to kill the people who had 'wronged' him in the past. Like a certain psychologist.
> 
> Warnings: Interface, death, gore.

"So pretty," Proteus cooes, thrusting between Trepan's eagerly spread thighs, "Don't you think so Sentinel?"

Sentinel grunts - Trepan's mouth trying to take in as much as the Prime's spike as possible and so far he's barely twitched.

"If this type of creature appeals to you," he answers.

Trepan frowns around his spike - a momentary slip of his mask, potential fatal. But Proteus laughs at the sight of his indignation.

"Don't mind him - Sentinel doesn't like sharing," Trepan doesn't miss the look that passes between the two, partners in every foul sense of the word, "But he likes to keep me pleased."

Another harsh thrust.

"You'll keep me pleased won't you Trepan?"

Trepan nods - able to read the meaning in the words, the threat. He strains his thighs apart even further, appropriately submissive.

"Good mech," Proteus croons with a nod to Sentinel.

The Prime's massive hand grips Trepan's helm, lodging his spike deeper into his mouth, hitting the back of his intake. Trepan doesn't hold back his splutter - it amuses Proteus and he wants to keep him entertained.

Both of them - though Sentinel is a tougher nut to crack. Ignoring discomfort, Trepan gives a fake whine of delight.

It reverberates along Sentinel's spike - his impassive expression falters and he groans.

Trepan smiles inwardly. He knows how to play the game to win. 

*

Trepan notices it immediately - the distinct lack of misery in Chromedome's EM field, for the first time since his conjunx's demise. He knows what he's done.

Foolish mech. He's not the first mnemosurgeon to resort to self-surgery. Trepan knows it will be a compulsion he'll struggle with for the rest of his life. 

But so be it. He prefers not to have Chromedome moping about the place.

As long as he never erases one significant detail. 

He surprises his student by pushing him against the wall. 

"I taught you everything," he whispers, "Don't you ever forget that."

Confusion swirls in Chromedome's EM field.

"Never," he says finally.

"Good," Trepan presses his lips against his mouthplate, "Now frag your teacher."

"We're due for surgery," Chromedome reminds him.

"It can wait," Trepan says.

He's the boss and he takes what he pleases. Especially his brightest student.

*

Overlord's tongue is hot and relentless against his anterior node. Trepan writhes - on the delicious cusp of overload when his captor pulls back. The mnemosurgeon howls. 

He's still a prisoner - subject to Overlord's whims. But in this twitching unfulfilled state he can't help glaring. 

Fortunately Overlord finds his little shows of defiance amusing. He licks his lips.

"This is how it works between us Doctor," he croons, "Give and take. Thing is, I much prefer taking to giving."

He flips Trepan on his hands and knees, large spike coming to press threateningly against Trepan's little valve. Even though he's sufficiently aroused, there's no hope of taking it all in without discomfort.

Especially when he knows Overlord won't be gentle.

But Trepan steels himself for it. It's no different than Proteus and Zeta, all the previous times he had allowed himself to be taken roughly by mecha who _needed_ him.

Overlord needs him - needs him to teach him what he knows. He won't risk breaking him too badly.

There's pain as Overlord's spike splits him. It helps make Trepan's performance genuine as he makes a show of crying out and squirming - all intended to stroke Overlord's sadistic ego.

When Overlord's transfluid fills him to the brim, in spite of the pain - it's a victory.

After all, Trepan wants to survive. He has no qualms about endearing himself to monsters, in more ways than one.

*

"I know something you can give me that you'll also enjoy taking."

Overlord is intrigued. Trepan gives him Froid's designation and it takes the Phase Sixer a reasonably short time to discern the psychologist's whereabouts. He and Trepan travel to Grindcore.

Froid's looking a lot worse for wear. Unsurprising, given Grindcore's reputation. 

The frame of his companion is similiarly deteriorated. A former scientist given the shape of his helm. His glasses are marred with a deep crack, yet he still wears them.

The resemblance isn't lost on Trepan.

"Still carrying that flame Froid," he says, "In spite of the world Rung has wrought upon us."

"Rung's contribution was insignificant," Froid's vocaliser is hoarse but his words ring with truth, "You've always known that Trepan. Whereas you and I, aligning ourselves with the Senate, abandoning ethics, our sense of responsibility - giving mecha a _reason_ to rise up, we hold far greater ack-accountability t-than..."

He descends into a coughing fit. His companion presses close - concern making him even Rung-like.

"Froid?"

Froid manages to gain control over his cough.

"I'm alright Quark," he touches his arm and Trepan feels a wave of old jealousy, "Rung did what he felt was right. He stood by his morals. Which is more than I can say for me, and especially of you."

Trepan delivers a hard kick to Froid's stomach that sends him crashing to his knees, Quark along with him.

"You think because I did a better job of surviving that you can judge me," he snarls over the sound of Froid gasping, "You're the one imprisoned in this hellhole Froid and none of your pitiful self-reflection is going to spare you from death."

The final word causes Quark to clutch Froid harder. But the psychologist's optics are focused on Trepan.

"You always were a B16 Trepan," he says, voice soft but noticeably absent of fear, "Very skilled at manipulation. But you're as much a prisoner as I."

He glances over to where Overlord stands, looking bored.

"He'll kill you too someday."

The calm certainty of it causes fear to wash over Trepan's frame. He struggles to brush it aside.

"Ha," he sneers, "You're no better a prophet than you were a psychologist."

He beckons to Overlord with a sickly sweet smile.

"Finally," Overlord strides over with a grin, "You Autobots gab on too much."

Trepan makes a show of running his hand over his chest.

"My apologies," he says, "You can have your fun now."

Froid is silent as Overlord's shadow descends over him. It is Quark who dissolves into a frenzy.

"Wait," he cries, "You can't - please - haven't you taken enough? He hasn't done anything to you."

"You think I need a motive?" Overlord smiles, "To enjoy killing a nerdy little Autobot?"

"Please," Quark sobs, "He's - he's all I have."

"Quark," Froid murmurs before Overlord can answer, "There's nothing you can say. He's going to kill me."

Quark answers with another pitiful sob.

"You've been the one boon in this awful place. I don't want you to get hurt. So please, move aside and turn your back."

"I - I can't."

"You can," Froid implores, "Please, for me."

Quark finally complies - staggering away on legs that threaten to collapse at any moment.

"Aw so sweet," Overlord croons, "But he'll still hear your screams, lovebot, I'll make sure of that."

If there is one thing about Overlord Trepan has noticed - he's consistent with his threats.

Halfway through Froid's screams fall silent.

By the time he's finished Froid is an unrecognizable mess.

Overlord turns to Trepan, bathed in Froid's energon.

"Was that as a good for you as it was for me?" he asks lewdly.

"Of course," Trepan answers - though looking at the mess that was once Froid, he feels oddly unsatisfied.

His words are still ringing in his helm.

_"He'll kill you too someday."_

He imagines himself lying in Froid's place, his beautiful frame mangled beyond recognition.

Quark's outcry of grief pulls him back to the present. He's kneeling in the muck, cradling what remains of Froid's helm.

"Monsters," he's whispering almost incoherently, "monsters."

Overlord watches a moment amused,

"You want me to kill scope-y?"

Trepan glances at the mech sobbing over Froid's decapitated helm - the mech who looks too much like Rung - jealousy and hatred crash over him in an all-consuming wave.

A smile twists on his lips, bright and fierce,

"Consider it a bonus."

Yet listening to the microscope's screams brings him little joy - nothing to dissuade the niggling fear deep in his spark that his days are numbered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Frag I made myself sad. 
> 
> In my headcanon Froid and Quark were imprisoned at Grindcore at the same time and Quark reminded Froid a little of Rung due to his glasses. They helped each other survive as best they could - until Trepan and Overlord showed up ;-;


	15. Trailbreaker & Roller (Alyon) III

"Fragging bunch of slaggers," Trailbreaker curses.

Glitch or Windcharger or _both_ have pilfered his stash of Nightmare Fuel. He isn't sure how - he had been so careful to store it in a safe place.

"Looking for this?" he turns to see Roller, Nightmare Fuel in one hand.

Trailbreaker grins with relief.

"Yup," but as he goes to take the engex, Roller jerks it out of his reach.

"You have a choice," he purrs, "This, or me."

Trailbreaker pouts,

"Can't I have both?" he smiles widely, "It's fun with both."

"Not this cycle," Roller says, "I want you sober this time kid."

"Awwww."

"I mean it," a bit of gruffness enters Roller's voice, "It's one or the other, what's it gonna be?"

"Mean," Trailbreaker remarks - but even though the thought of Nightmare Fuel makes his mouth water, he knows which he prefers, "You."

Roller grins,

"Good answer," he subspaces the Nightmare Fuel, "You can have this back when I finish with you - _if_ I ever finish."

Trailbreaker laughs - the line doesn't quite make sense, of course they’re going to finish, as soon as they overload. But the way Roller says it, it still sends a tingle up his backstrut.

He allows Roller to push him against the wall. He's strong, even without C32 in his system. Trailbreaker can't taste Kremzeek in his kisses.

"Sober too?"

"Trying it out," Roller's denta pluck at his neck cables, "'Sides, you taste better than Kremzeek."

Trailbreaker purrs at the compliment - he didn't know he could purr. But with Roller, he keeps discovering new things about himself.

Especially interface-wise. Trailbreaker didn't realize how innocent he was until he and Roller started fragging.

He never realized how sensitive the grooves on his palms are - how aroused he gets from having them kissed and sucked and licked. It makes sense he supposes, it's where his forcefields originate.

"Spike or valve?" Roller murmurs against his palm.

"V-v-valve," he gasps, "Roller, _please_."

His interface panel has already sprung open, he's wet and dripping and aching.

Roller chuckles,

"Valve it is," he buries several digits and Trailbreaker gives a whine of relief.

"Shh," Roller says, though he still wiggles his fingers to illicit more noise, "Don't want to the others to hear us."

Trailbreaker does his best to draw his lips together tightly - his concentration face, it's not attractive he knows, but it will at least stop him making too much of a racket.

"I love that face," Roller surprises him.

"Windcharger says it makes me look stupid."

"'Charger's an idiot," Roller nuzzles his cheek, "It's cute."

Trailbreaker would normally object to being called cute. It's hardly the same as handsome or cool or studly.

But when Roller says it, it makes his spark swell with pride. 

"Don't let anyone tell you different," the heavyweight says and Trailbreaker nods his helm - distracted by Roller's fingers edging him towards the warmth of overload.

The first of many - Trailbreaker coming to realize Roller's earlier meaning.

*

 _"You were doing your forcefield face,"_ Whirl says, so many cycles later, _"It's grotesque."_

Trailbreaker protests - but it's harder without Roller at his side, convincing him that it's something beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Italics are actual Whirl quotes from Spotlight Trailcutter. At least he tried to help with a makeover afterwards.


	16. Trailbreaker & Springer (Post-Tsiehshi)

“I owe you one,” Springer had said.

Trailbreaker can’t think of anything he wants aside from a heavy intoxicant. Springer has a bottle of Nightmare Fuel. Trailbreaker offers to share. Springer looks like he needs a drink too.

They proceed to get plastered in Springer’s quarters. The loud, obscene kind of overcharged. But even in the midst of potent engex slushing its way through Trailbreaker’s systems, dulling his processor, he still knows Springer is thinking about Kup.

The green mech’s grinning too wide, as though he’s trying to push it all away. Trailbreaker knows it doesn’t work. The dark thoughts only stop when you pass out.

But neither of them are lightweights. It will take a few more rounds to knock them unconscious. Trailbreaker attempts to top up his glass and ends up spilling Nightmare Fuel over Springer’s desk.

Springer laughs, it’s like his grin, loud but hollow.

“Klutz.”

If Trailbreaker wasn’t completely hammered, he might take offence. Instead he sniggers as he moves to suck up the pool of liquid on Springer’s desk.

He looks up at Springer, mouth dripping.

“Waste not want not.”

He grins, his wit always more impressive when he’s overcharged.

Springer grins back. He practically falls on top of Trailbreaker as he presses a hard sloppy kiss to his mouth.

“Sure?” Trailbreaker slurs as Springer buries his face in the crook of his neck.

Big hands slide over his hips, rough, clumsy.

“Yeah,” Springer answers, "You?"

"Yeah."

Trailbreaker’s panel is already in the process of retracting. The state he’s in he doesn’t need much convincing. Regret, shame, it will all come later, when he’s sober.

For now he’s keen. Springer’s keen. Springer is touching him, his weight bearing down on him. Too familiar, far too familiar.

The size mostly. As for the rest, Springer’s too… green. His helm too Springer-y.

But when Trailbreaker offlines his optics, it’s easier to imagine Roller in the darkness.

Roller’s fingers sliding through the wetness of his valve, pushing in deep, rough.

Trailbreaker arches against the hard edge of the desk digging into his backstrut.

The discomfort of it is his only link to reality. Barely registered amidst the sensation of Roller’s fingers, filling him, stretching him then withdrawing, moving aside for the large tip of his spike. Usually Roller would tease the tip against his anterior node, making him buckle at the knees, begging for him to go further.

But this time it’s a harsh thrust inside his valve, choking a ragged gasp from Trailbreaker’s vocaliser.

Arms clutch him tightly to the surface of a broad chestplate.

“Sorry,” a voice not quite Roller’s rumbles pitifully, “Sorry.”

Trailbreaker doesn’t answer except for a feeble rock of his hips. It’s enough to goad his lover on, thrusting more slowly than the first powerful surge. He stumbles a few times in his intoxication. Trailbreaker doesn’t mind. The engex has leadened his limbs. Without Roller pinning him against the desk, he could barely stand on his own.

He’s happy to have Roller keep him locked in place and frag him. Moans fall from his lips in encouragement. Roller crushes him more tightly to his chest as he picks up his pace.

But through the happy delirium, though the engex is frazzling his audio feed, he can hear not-quite-Roller’s voice calling out a designation.

“Kup,” softly, into the crook of Trailbreaker’s neck, “Kup, Kup…”

Trailbreaker tries not to mind. He’s using Springer too so it all balances out. And with Springer preoccupied in his own fantasy, he might not hear Trailbreaker calling him by another designation when he spills over.

“Roller.”


	17. Megatron & Trailcutter (Lost Light)

There's a knock on Megatron's door. It's not Magnus, not his three standard purposeful knocks. Or Rodimus' cheeky bang-bang- _banging_. It's a quiet but frantic rapping.

Megatron subspaces his datapad and nudges Ravage to shift himself off his abdomen - which the symbiont does with a scowl.

"It's late," he grumbles, "Let me answer it, I'll claw their legs."

Megatron shakes his helm. For some reason he senses it's important - the continued desperation of the rapping.

He opens the door to find Trailcutter. At the sight of Megatron he stumbles back, EM field a chaotic flux.

"Is there some sort of situation?" Megatron asks.

"What?" Trailcutter starts, "Uh no, I..."

Embarrassment sings through his anxiety. His mouth opens and closes wordlessly before he hangs his helm.

"I don't mean to bother you," he offers up apologetically, "I - forget it, it's stupid."

He turns with a jerking wave of his hand,

"I'll just..."

"Trailcutter," Megatron's reproachful tone halts him in his tracks, "You can't knock on my door then leave without giving me a proper explanation as to why."

Trailcutter turns, expression crumbling into something akin to anguish,

"I can't recharge okay! Usually I'd drink so much I would pass out. But now - my brain's all - awake and I don't..."

He falters, gaining control of his glossa, reluctant to press on. Megatron is silent, glancing at his fingers curled around the door, the same fingers that delivered the blow to Trailcutter's helm.

He glances back up at Trailcutter,

"Go on," he says, because a part of him feels he has to hear it.

The request causes Trailcutter to look almost fearful. But in the end he cracks, like he did just moments before, honesty pouring out of him in fractured pieces,

"I used to have someone - someone - he - being sober around him was okay. Better than okay."

He smiles, the kind with happy memory laced with pain, with loss. It splinters off his face as quickly as it came,

"He's not around anymore, which is why I drank so damn much in the first place. So I wouldn't have to deal... With him being gone and having no one else that came close to..." he spirals rapidly, fists clenching, "Slag, even when I'm sober, I can't string a fragging sentence together!"

"Trailcutter," Megatron intervenes, before Trailcutter can lose control, accidentally trigger a Panic Bubble.

It's effective, Trailcutter pulls himself back from the brink - he looks down, ashamed.

"Yeah I know, I gotta mech up," he murmurs, "I'll go, patrol the hallways or something. Maybe that will wear me out. Sorry for waking you."

He turns again,

"Trailcutter," Megatron waits for him to whirl around before continuing, "You appear to have an unpleasant habit of walking off before I dismiss you."

Trailcutter cringes,

"Sorry, won't happen aga..."

Megatron silences him with a hand,

"I wasn't in recharge," he tells him, "I was writing."

"Oh," Trailcutter seems uncertain how to respond to this, finally he settles on another apology, "Sorry for... disturbing your flow."

He starts to turn, managing to stop himself.

"Sorry," he mutters, "Force of habit. May I go?"

"No," Megatron says, "But you may come in."

Trailcutter's mouth drops open,

"Really?"

Megatron doesn't deign that with a response. He doesn't like repeating himself. He retreats back inside the room, expecting Trailcutter to follow.

After a moment he does, coming to stand at attention while Megatron is settling back on the berth. He motions at the space beside him,

Trailcutter flushes,

"You don't have to..."

Yes I do, Megatron thinks. By permanently engaging his F.I.M. chip and appointing him security chief, he's made him his responsibility.

"It's best you don't refuse an invitation from your Captain," he says, firmly, and Trailcutter shifts forward on slightly stumbling pedes.

He curls up awkwardly against Megatron, Ravage watching at the foot of the berth.

::He probably snores,:: he complains, ::And drools in his recharge.::

::Then you best remain out of the way of potential leakage,:: to which Ravage huffs.

Thankfully he's too tired to voice more argument than that. He falls into recharge in his new position. Trailcutter remains awake, though he's dimmed his visor, lying mutely next to Megatron as the co-Captain resumes his typing.

Every so often he feels a wave of awkwardness pulse through Trailcutter's Field. He makes no move to reassure him, merely continues his work. Gradually the awkwardness dissipates, replaced by a peaceful lull.

Ravage is right. Trailcutter does snore albeit not as loudly as some mecha. And there's a small patch of lubricant at the corner of his mouth.

But it's tolerable, it doesn't prevent Megatron from finally putting away his datapad and slipping into recharge along with him.


	18. Froid & Quark (Grindcore)

"Breathe," Froid says in the darkness of their Grindcore cell, "Breathe."

But the instruction, delivered in a whispered soothing tone does little to stop Quark hyperventilating beside him.

"I - I can't," he wheezes.

For a single guilty second Froid wishes he was Rung. He can't imagine Rung breaking down like this. Rung would hold it together. Rung knew _how_ to hold it together.

But Froid isn't Rung, despite the resemblance which drew Froid to him in the first place. He's a scientist prone to panic attacks, a condition made considerably worse in their current circumstance.

Froid feels a wave of helplessness. He's a psychologist. He should be able to talk Quark through it.

But talking has never been his area of expertise. He classified personality types, he assessed risk.

Talking? That was always Rung's specialty.

He tries to think of what Rung might say.

"It's okay," he finds himself saying, "It's okay."

But it feels deceitful in his mouth. It's not okay. He knows it. Quark knows it. That's why he's worked himself up into such a state.

Froid grasps for more effective Rungian technique - knowing his own would fall short. He can hardly take away Quark's terror through a P.A. Even if he could, the thought of inflicting one on his friend leaves a bad taste in his mouth. He's seen too much exploitation of the procedure - _participated_ in too much exploitation at the behest of the Senate.

It's why he deserves to be here. In a way it's his penance.

But Quark. He's an innocent compared to Froid.

He doesn't deserve to suffer - but he is, doubled over beside him.  

Froid leafs through his memory banks. Even after so many years of separation, hostility, he's never forgotten Rung's techniques. Techniques they discussed in length along with his own until differences pulled them apart.

He hits upon something that might help.

“Quark,” he says, “I want you to offline your optics.”

Quark manages to still his heaving for a split second to glance at him – optics full of confusion, luminescence highlighting the crack in his glasses.

“Trust me,” Froid says – the statement feels like a con too, the things he’s done, he doesn’t deserve trust – but he needs Quark to comply, “Offline your optics.”

Quark gives a ragged nod and his optics dim, the cell around them growing a little darker.

“I want you to imagine the place where you were most happy,” Froid begins.

Re-experience therapy. He never applied it to a patient himself. But in Quark’s case it seems like his best shot at calming him.

In theory.

But then, theory and reality didn’t always mix.

Instead of falling in with Froid’s instruction, Quark rails against it.

“I – I was never happy,” his voice shakes pitifully, “I was always afraid.”

“Of what?”

Froid regrets the deviation immediately. Quark grows more distressed.

“This,” he cries, “Social upheaval. War. _Death_.”

Froid’s hand caresses his back,

“Quark, we’re still very much alive.”

The scientist shudders against him,

“But for how long?”

Froid is grateful Quark has kept his optic offline so he can’t see him wince. He knows he can’t answer that question – that he can’t offer Quark any assurance of survival, not for either of them.

“Concentrate,” he presses on, “There must have been a place where you felt safe?”

Quark is quiet a moment except for the sound of his vents.

“M-my lab perhaps.”

Froid feels a wave of relief at the answer. He can work with this.

“Describe it to me.”

Quark frowns. He’s a lot like Rung when he frowns. It’s the glasses.

“I don’t know where to start.”

“Start with something simple,” Froid suggests, “What color were the walls?”

“White,” Quark answers.

With that as the starting point his description steadily grows more complex. He recalls the lab’s parameters, the layout of the work benches, describes his equipment, their function, all the safety features.

His vents slip back into a steady rhythm. For Froid it’s a bittersweet success seeing Rung’s technique bring Quark back from the brink.

“Froid?” Quark says after trailing off a moment into silence.

“Yes?”

Froid feels an unexpected spike of anxiety in Quark’s field.

“I know it wouldn’t make much sense… But can I imagine you in my lab?”

Froid is taken aback by the request.

“It’s silly,” a slight tremor slips back into Quark’s voice, “If we hadn’t ended up here together, I doubt we would have crossed paths… Or if we had, you probably wouldn’t have liked me. Everyone thought I was a paranoid c-crackpot...”

“Shh,” Froid intervenes before Quark can work himself into another state, “I don’t think you’re a crackpot.”

It’s easier to say that in their current situation – with Quark’s paranoia justified. In the past he knows it would have been different. That his former self would have recommended him for a P.A. without hesitation.

Guilt presses heavily on his spark. He finds himself drawing Quark in closer.

“I’m standing in your lab with you,” he says, allowing himself to imagine it as well, “What are we doing?”

“I – um – I could tell you about my research,” Quark suggests with a certain amount of shyness, “Usually you would need clearance but…”

“I have clearance,” Froid tells him.

After all it’s their fantasy, they can shape it how they want.

Once upon a time Froid thought living in delusion was a sign of a feeble mind.

But now – in the darkness of their cell, future harsh and bleak – it’s a way of coping. For both of them.

His optic dim as he listens to Quark talking about electrons.


	19. Riptide, Rodimus & Megatron (Lost Light)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Insec, because we talked about this :3

"Hmmm lemme think... Nope."

"What?" Riptide frowns, "But you let me fly the Rodpod all the time."

"Yeah on missions," Rodimus answers, "Not on romantic jaunts that might end in transfluid over the controls."

Riptide flushes,

"It's strictly a sightseeing trip," he says, "We're not planning on interfacing."

"Pfft sure," Rodimus snorts, "Why else would you wanna show off your piloting skills? Not unless you were expecting to get a little nookie out of it."

He shakes his helm,

"And you know the most offensive part? You didn't think to invite me along."

Riptide is taken aback,

"You... you wanna interface with me and Lotty?" he ventures worriedly.

Rodimus pulls a face,

"Ew no," he says, "Of course not. But the Rodpod is my baby. If any fragging goes on, I have a right - nay a _duty_ \- to be involved."

"But you don't _want_ to be involved.”

"Not with you, no," Rodimus leans back in his chair, "So you see my conundrum."

"But we probably won't even interface," Riptide protests, "C'mon Rodimus. I already promised Lotty I would take her."

Rodimus shrugs his shoulders,

"Not my problem."

He waves his hand in dismissal. Riptide slumps out of his office, dawdling in the hallway in his reluctance to tell Lotty the bad news.

It seems like fate for him to catch sight of Megatron walking in the other direction. Riptide has never been so glad to see the former warlord.

"Could I have a word with you, uh, Sir?"

"Make it quick. I have a meeting," he sighs, "In fact take as long as you like. I hate meetings with Rodimus."

Despite the invitation Riptide knows better than to irritate Megatron by giving him a long-winded story.

"I want to take Velocity on a sight-seeing tour with the Rodpod," he tells him, "I think it would very, er, informative. But Rodimus said no."

"Oh?" Megatron said, "And why is that? Is he afraid of you crashing his egotistical eyesore of a shuttle?"

"I'm a really good pilot," Riptide can't help but defend himself, "But to answer your question, he, uh, he refused because he doesn't want us... Um... Fragging in it."

Megatron's resulting stare causes him to hurriedly add,

"Not that we would. He just kinda assumed. I swear me and Lotty would only use the shuttle in the most professional capacity."

"I see," Megatron says, "Well, I see no reason not to deny you permission myself. I'm well within my rights as co-Captain."

He silences Riptide's subsequent gratitude with a raise of his hand,

"And by all means, interface," the statement knocks the grin from Riptide's faceplates, "In fact, consider it an order."

Riptide stares at him uncertainly. Was he actually being serious? No, it had to be a joke... but since when did Megatron joke?

And if he was being serious, how was he going to tell Lotty that Megatron had ordered them to frag in the Rodpod?

"No need to dally Riptide," Megatron's voice cuts through his internal dilemma, "You're dismissed."

He brushes past the hydrobot with a smirk,

"Like I said, I have a meeting with Rodimus. Suddenly I feel rather enthusiastic about it. Enjoy your outing."

"Uh, thanks," Riptide answers awkwardly.

He moves to find Lotty, deciding the order is one best left up to chance.

After all, explaining that Megatron is a bigger pervert than Rodimus is hardly a romantic topic of conversation.

In fact it's downright creepy.


	20. Whirl, Perceptor & Megatron (Post Time-Travel)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I wanted to write more Perceptor/Whirl stuff, based after 'What Happens in Perceptor's Lab'.

Whirl overhears Mainframe at Swerve’s – telling Jackpot how Megatron ‘lost it’ in the midst of all the time travel drama and struck Perceptor. He makes a beeline for Brainstorm’s lab. He knows that’s where Perceptor will be – Percy being the massive nerd he is and Brainstorm’s time cases being the trending scientific curiosity. Sure enough he finds him, in his alt mode, engrossed.

He jabs the microscope roughly with his pede, 

“Transform nerd.”

Perceptor complies, a frown on his face,

“Whirl…”

Whirl inspects the dents on the side of his face. Superficial, the kind of injury a Wrecker would laugh off. But it incenses him for some reason. Perhaps it’s the fact Megatron dealt the blow, the fact it wasn’t sustained in a battle, that it’s a sign Perceptor was whaled upon and Whirl knows he should find it amusing but he _doesn’t_ – and the fact he doesn’t makes him angrier – the fact Perceptor continues to wear it due to his stupid nerd priorities.

As a result his words come out more threat than teasing,

"Your face looks frikkin' stupid. Get it fixed nerd."

He stalks out before Perceptor utters a word of objection. Whirl will drag him to Ratchet's himself if he overhears any - and he knows how that would look.

Instead he takes himself to Megatron’s hab suite, bangs on the door.

“Who is it?”

“Your daddy,” Whirl answers, “Open the fraggin’ door Megs.”

For some inexplicable reason Megatron opens the door – and Whirl strikes him hard in the face.

"I saved your life so consider that a freebie,” he says – because he hasn’t worked out how to defeat Megatron since their last fight and he’s not looking for a repeat. Not until he’s evened the odds.

Still, Megatron’s response of passivity slags him off. The fact he stands there pensively, as though Whirl’s assault didn’t even occur.

"Regretting the decision?” he asks.

“Regret? Nah?” Whirl answers, “The way I see it, saving you in the past means you and I get exist together in the present. Which means I can kill you someday.”

“Perhaps,” Megatron says contemplatively, “Fitting irony I suppose.”

He pauses a moment,

“I won’t make it easy for you.”

“You better not,” Whirl says viciously.

Megatron nods,

“Why the ‘freebie’ then?” he enquires.

Whirl waves his claw flippantly as he leaves,

“Just seein’ what I could get away with.”

After all he’s not about to admit the punch was for Perceptor.


	21. Drift & Ratchet (Lost Light)

"I'm old," Ratchet attempts to dissuade him.

"Experienced," Drift counters with a smile, "Worldly."

Ratchet huffs,

"I'm hardly the prettiest mech to look at."

"I beg to differ", his companion replies, "Anyway beauty is in the optic of the beholder."

"Then you probably need your optics re-calibrated," Ratchet snarks, to which Drift shakes his helm, causing the medic to ex-vent, "I'm a grump."

Drift presses a kiss to his frown,

"Not always", he murmurs, "And some might call you passionate." 

Ratchet huffs again - though this time he's trying to hold back a smile.

"I'm a workaholic," the statement sobers him.

But Drift isn't discouraged,

"Dedicated," he answers, "And I like that you help people. Like you helped me."

Ratchet's spark lurches uncontrollably,

"You and your damn optimism," he growls, but kisses him all the same.

It's his way expressing gratitude for Drift's perspective - that the energon cube is half full instead of empty, that he sees the good where Ratchet sees the flaws.

Drift smiling into their kiss is enough to know he understands. 


	22. Drift & Ratchet II (Lost Light)

Drift had expected it. The ribbing from Rodimus after becoming Ratchet's conjunx. All the innuendo thrown his way. He endured it. Rodimus didn't understand how such jokes made him feel. He wasn't thinking of Drift's past when he said them. It would never cross Rodimus' mind that Drift and Ratchet's relationship was actually non-sexual. 

And if Drift told him the truth, he probably wouldn't understand. Not Rodimus, interfaced-obsessed Rodimus. So it was easier to grin and bear it, hope that in time Rodimus would grow bored of teasing him about Ratchet's legendary hands.

While it was easy to forgive Rodimus, it was harder to dismiss his comments from his processor. At first Drift had been relieved Ratchet didn't seem too interested in interface. But the more Rodimus talked, the more Drift wondered why that was. After all, Ratchet had an infamous past as the 'party ambulance'. True he was lot older now, his disinterest could be attributed to age. Or his priorities. Or a combination of the two.

But what if the reason was Drift himself? What if Ratchet _wanted_ interface and was suppressing his desires to respect Drift's own preference? The thought left the swordmech feeling incredibly guilty.

Still, there was a worse scenario. What if it was all to do with Drift’s past? He didn't doubt that Ratchet cared for him. But caring for someone didn't mean it was easy to dismiss how many mecha Drift had serviced in the past.

Drift knew this probably wasn't the case. Ratchet was the least judgmental person he had ever encountered. He had never been shown to hold Drift's past against him.

All the same, he couldn't help dismiss the niggling doubt in his processor, one that flared to the surface each time Rodimus nudged his chestplate with a lewd comment.

Finally it came spilling out one night as he and Ratchet lay together in the berth. Like they usually did when Ratchet wasn't on call, time they usually spent talking, sharing kisses, touches, none of which ever dissolved into interface.

It was a routine Drift usually found comfort in. That he could enjoy small intimacies with Ratchet without fearing it was a prelude to fragging.

But this time he felt distinctly uneasy.

"Ratchet?" he murmured.

"Hmm?" Ratchet sounded half in recharge.

Drift hesitated a moment before forcing himself onwards.

"Why don't we interface?"

He felt Ratchet lurch into alertness. He shifted on his side to face Drift with a slight shrug,

"We just don't."

It was spoken with such simply honesty. Drift wished he could accept it and move on.

But it was too vague, left too much to Drift's imagination.

"But why?" he pressed, "Is it me? Because of my past..."

"Don't be daft," Ratchet cut over him with a glower, "Why would you say something like that."

"I don't know," Drift said, "Because for some mecha that would bother them."

"Well it doesn't bother me," Ratchet growled, "Primus, kid, I thought you knew me better than that."

Drift winced at the accusation.

"I do - it's just... I don't understand why we don't."

Ratchet's expression softened,

"Because..." he said, "Because we don't need to."

"Need?" Drift echoed.

Ratchet sighed,

"Kid, if 'facing's what you want, I'm up for it. But I know you're not too keen on it."

Drift felt a shame wash over him,

"So it's all because of me."

"Don't take it like that," Ratchet squeezed his shoulder, "It's not about coddling you. I don't need interface to enjoy being with you. And to be perfectly honest, it's one of the last things on my mind. Not that you aren't attractive, I'm just old. Interface is a young mech's game. I probably couldn't satisfy you with my rusty equipment anyway."

Drift found himself smiling,

"I don't know about that," he said softly, "Maybe one day we could... give it a go."

"Maybe," Ratchet said, "But if we don't, it doesn't matter."

Drift had never felt so reassured hearing the conviction in Ratchet's voice. He pressed a kiss to his mouth,

"I love you, you know that."

"I had a feeling," Ratchet said, tone gruff but affection evident in his smile, "I love you too kid. But if you don't let me recharge, I'm kicking you out of the berth."

Drift laughed at the threat.

Even so he settled his helm against the medic's chestplate, lulled by the proximity of his spark and the sense of peace in his own.


	23. Swerve & Roadbuster (Lost Light, AU)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In 'Zero Point' it mentioned RB had to teach himself to resist patting Bumblebee on the head. I assume he feels that way about most small bots.
> 
> Combine that with Swerve and I gave myself feels :'(
> 
> Set in an AU where Springer and RB join the LL after Dark Cybertron.

Swerve was happy to have Wreckers frequenting his bar. Wreckers other than Whirl, who didn’t really count after being booted in the past. Springer and Roadbuster on the other hand, they were still the real deal. Walking, talking legends, and Swerve’s newest patrons.

Springer was arguably the more famous of the two. Swerve admitted he had been more pleased to see the green mech the first time the two had walked in. He was friendly enough, with that grin that made First Aid go to pieces. But he wasn’t quite as chummy as Roadbuster.

The mech actually patted Swerve on the helm. Something that had evolved into a sort of custom each time the Wrecker stopped by. Swerve had found it a little odd at first, almost a little demeaning. But he soon swept the inhibition aside. No one else offered Swerve much in way of friendly contact.

No hugs or back pats or high fives. Not even a handshake, even from the most inebriated mecha. They always found someone else to shower drunken affection on.

So if RB (Roadbuster said it was fine to call him that, another tick in Swerve’s good books) wanted to pat his helm, who was Swerve to say no.

But he did start to wonder what it all meant. From what he observed, RB never patted anyone else on the helm. He threw his arm around Springer occasionally or gave First Aid a friendly nudge that almost knocked the medic off his stool (Springer always caught him, Swerve actually suspected the green mech put RB up to it).

But as for helm pats, Swerve was the sole recipient.

Thus, it was only logical to conclude RB was harboring some kind of crush on him.

Swerve was actually amazed it had taken him so long to figure it out. The big guy had been sending him hints this whole time and Swerve had been oblivious. Almost as oblivious as Tailgate.

But unlike his friend, Swerve had managed to pick up on the signals.

Well, signal.

The problem was figuring out his next move. Obviously RB was too shy to ask him out outright, which is why he had resorted to helm pats, easily masked as buddy contact. Swerve decided it was best to employ similar subtlety.

So the next time RB patted his helm, Swerve responded with gun fingers.

“Back at you buddy.”

RB had seemed confused. Maybe gun fingers were a little too flirty, a little too forward.

But then RB had chuckled and ruffled his helm.

“Wreck ‘n rule little guy.”

Little guy? Not the best pet name. But a pet name nonetheless. Swerve felt they were progressing.

But after a few rounds of swapping helm pats and gun fingers progress seemed to have stalled.

Swerve decided he needed backup. In the form of First Aid.

"What's the emergency?" the medic asked after responding to Swerve's comm.

"You haven't signed up for Trivia Night," Swerve thought he may as well kill two birds with one stone, "You, Springer and RB can be a team."

"You said it was a medical emergency," First Aid said.

"Well I'm thinking that might be one of the categories," Swerve jested.

"Probably not the best idea," First Aid advised, "Now if you don't mind, I'm a little strapped for time..."

"Hey c'mon," Swerve cut off his escape, "When's the last time you and me had a one on one?"

First Aid looked uncomfortable,

"Uh, we've never really..."

"It's about high time we did," Swerve grinned, "I'll even fix you a drink, on the house."

It was good idea to promote friendly relations with RB’s inner circle.

"That's not really...."

"So how's the nursing life treating you?" Swerve asked, fulfilling his obligation as conversational bartender as he threw together a concoction of relatively cheap engex.

First Aid sighed,

“Swerve, I’m not a nurse, I was re-promoted after…”

“Hey that’s great,” Swerve slid his drink across the counter, "Here you go."

First Aid accepted it with an air of defeat,

"Thanks."

Swerve smiled. No one turned down a free drink (unless you were Ultra 'Are you attempting to bribe me Swerve?' Magnus.)

While First Aid consumed said freebie, Swerve was free to ask him about Roadbuster.

“You and RB are pretty close right,” he ventured casually.

“Yes I suppose so,” First Aid said, “Why do you ask?”

“Has he said anything about me?”

“What?” First Aid sounded startled, “Uh, no.”

Oh. Swerve fought the urge to frown. He could have sworn First Aid seemed the type for RB to confide in. All that doctor-patient confidentiality and so on.

“I guess maybe he’s too shy,” he pondered aloud.

“What?”

“To talk to you about me.”

First Aid answered with a look of confusion.

“Why would he talk to me about you?”

“Because he has a crush on me.”

First Aid choked on his engex,

“What?”

“A crush,” Swerve repeated, “You know I’m surprised you haven’t noticed. But I guess you’ve been busy making goo-goo optics at Springer.”

“I do not make goo-goo optics,” First Aid protested, “Anyway why do you think RB has a crush on you?”

“I don’t think,” Swerve said, “I know. He’s always patting my helm. If that’s not somebot throwing hints, I don’t know what is.”

First Aid was silent for a long time. Finally he sighed,

“Swerve I… I really hate to tell you this. But there’s nothing romantic about RB’s helm patting. He finds small bots cute so he…”

“Yeah small bots like me,” Swerve interrupted, “Hence the crush.”

First Aid’s visor crinkled with pity,

“You misunderstand. RB finds all small bots cute. Something to do with their size in relation to him. Springer says he used to pat Bumblebee’s helm all the time.”

Part of Swerve was instantly accepting. Of course it would turn out that he misread the situation. Just like Blurr in the past.

But the rest of Swerve railed against it.

“There’s plenty of small bots on this ship and RB doesn’t pat their helms,” he argued, “What about Tailgate?”

“He probably wants to avoid getting embroiled in that Cyclonus and Getaway situation.”

The answer was horribly logical. But Swerve pressed on,

“Rewind?”

“Similar reason. He doesn’t want to offend Chromedome by acting too familiar.”

“Magnus?”

“He’s the most difficult,” First Aid said, “RB thinks he’s absolutely adorable in his true form. But he restrains himself out of respect.”

“Oh,” Swerve said quietly.

“I’m sorry Swerve,” First Aid actually reached across the bar to offer consolation.

Swerve decided to evade it at the last second. It would be nice, having a comforting hand on his arm. But accepting pity meant admitting his own foolishness.

“No need to apologize Aid,” he forced a huge grin, “I’m actually relieved. Here I was thinking I would have to let the big guy down. Not an appealing prospect, let me tell you. He’s a huge mech. I was worried what he might do to the place. Not to mention he’s one of my best customers.”

First Aid drew back his arm,

“Glad I could put your mind at ease,” he said after a moment.

“You have,” Swerve said in his best bright tone, “For sure. Thanks buddy.”

“You’re welcome,” First Aid said, awkwardly, “Anyway my shift starts soon so…"

Swerve tried not to look too relieved.

“No problem,” he said, “You and Springer drop by anytime though. And RB. After all I got nothing to fear from him right?”

He loosed a chuckle, one that was a little too wild and grating. He saw First Aid flinching.

“Of course,” he said, dismounting his stool.

“Wait,” Swerve said, “You forgot to pay for your drink.”

“You said it was free,” First Aid reminded him.

“Oh right,” Swerve forced a chuckle again, “Silly me. Have a bloody good shift First Aid. Get it, bloody? Not that I hope anyone comes in bleeding profusely, that would be…”

He trailed off. First Aid had already disappeared out the door.

A few joors later he walked back in with Springer and RB. Swerve’s spark felt tight as he watched the tall Wrecker break from the pair and approach the bar.

“Hey little guy.”

He reached across the counter. Swerve could have smacked his hand away, or dodged. Instead he allowed RB to pat his helm, as though nothing had changed. He forced a grin and worked his fingers into their customary reply,

“Back at you buddy.”

Okay it wasn’t love. But it was more affection than he got from anyone else.

That was worth preserving, right?


	24. Fulcrum, Krok & Misfire (Aboard the W.A.P.)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short, dumb Scavenger fluff a.k.a. shameless Krok/Fulcrum ship.

Misfire interrupted Krok and Fulcrum's quiet moment on the couch.

"How do you two kiss?"

"What?" Krok said irritably.

"Kiss," Misfire said, "I mean. It's kinda impossible. You don't have a mouth. Well, you have a hole. But I doubt Pinhead can reach it with his massive chin getting in the way." 

"My chin isn't that big," Fulcrum protested.

"Uh yeah it is," Misfire said, earning him a withering look from Krok, "What, it's a simple observation of mechanics. It juts out more than his lips do."

"We do kiss though," Fulcrum looked at Krok, "Should we show him?"

Krok sighed,

"I suppose. Maybe then he'll leave us alone."

Fulcrum gathered up Krok's fingers and navigated them to his lips.

"See Misfire, we do..." he trailed off at the sight of Misfire biting his knuckles.

"So adorable," he cleared his vocaliser, "Excuse me, I'm off to reassert my mechliness... Somehow."

Krok and Fulcrum glanced at each other.

"Kiss me again."

Fulcrum complied with a smile.


	25. Fort Max & Red Alert (Luna 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Cuz I ship these two so much after the last issue. And even before it really, ever since they moved into Luna 1 together.
> 
> My take on their probably-not-entirely-healthy-but-it-works-and-it's-sweet-relationship.
> 
> Also brief unrequitedMaxRung feels.

Red Alert fusses each time Max returns from a mission. Max knows he shouldn't take any satisfaction from Red inspecting him for injuries. But concern is its own strange aphrodisiac. And Max notices, as Red systematically checks every inch of him, he doesn't mention conspiracies or hidden messages.

Red's touch is careful but affectionate. It was Overlord who made Max repulsed by touch. It was Rung who taught him touch could be kind, far too kind, and forgiving. But Rung's touch could never be a lover's touch. Red's touch is different. Red's touch crosses that line, (the line they both decided to cross shortly into their stationing at Luna 1, when they met in Max's office, lonely and overwhelmed and Rung-less) with Max responding in kind.

Still, there's a degree of professionalism. Something they cling to. Missions always take priority, Red is the backup, the voice in Max's audial while Max enforces the Accord. It's only after he returns, successful, after Red Alert completes his routine check on Max and sees that he's patched up accordingly, that Max touches the dome of Red's helm.

It's almost like some kind of reward, one that would make him feel guilty and presumptuous if Red didn't smile that awkward, seldom seen smile of his as he reaches for Max's hands. Always his hands, and Max likes that, because it feels like a proper courtship. Maybe Red feels the same, though they never really try define what they have through discussion. It simply is.

When they do talk, it's mostly mission based. Case files, MO's, theories. But during these quiet aftermaths, they communicate for the most part in silent glances, body language. It's like some strange dance, as they maneuver to the berth. A dance Max never though he would understand but he does. He understands Red somehow and somehow Red understands him.

Perhaps because they're both damaged. Their individual traumas make them relatable to one another. But it doesn't account for this desire to come together, like this, as two mecha sharing a close affinity, sharing intimacy for intimacy’s sake, not two mecha attempting to mask their problems.

Still it’s a temporary reprieve, for both of them. Max never thinks of Garrus or Decepticons or even Rung as he gently explores Red's body, each time as though it's new, new yet familiar and comforting. And even though Red's mouth is on Max's, Max never thinks it's to suppress blurting out anxieties. Rather Red's kisses are, simply, kisses and so are Max's.

So healing, Max supposes, is a byproduct but not a motive. And in this realization, he thinks (hopes) Rung would approve. Of this, of them. Them. It's a concept that had seemed foreign to Max in the past. It had always been Max and rest of the world around him. Then Max and Overlord, the latter seemingly inescapable, and Max had wished desperately to be alone, or dead.

Now he only thinks of living, fulfilling his duty. It's no longer Solitary Max or Tortured Max. It's Max and Red Alert. Two halves of a partnership. Two halves of something even more undefinable yet precious.

"I'll take first watch," he tells Red, after, when they are squeezed together to fit on the berth.

"You just got back," Red protests, "You should recharge."

"You've been awake for as long as I have," Max reminds him, "Get some recharge Red."

Sometimes Red acquiesces. Sometimes Max is too tired to fight him. Either way one of them always remains awake while the other recharges, peacefully, knowing they are being watched over. It's probably a bizarre system to some. But for them it works.

And despite the strain of prolonging his own recharge, watching the serenity of Red's face is comforting. Its the only time when Max sees the taunt lines on his face fully relax. He wonders if his own face is the same, if Red watches him recharge and feels the same sense of validation.

He hopes he does, that Max gives as much as he takes. He supposes if anything it shows Red trusts him. No small honor, from a mech who trusts nothing. Max still isn't sure he's worthy, not of trust, after all he's done. But as Red recharges, he's determined to prove himself, keeping him safe until the moment he onlines and returns the favor.


	26. Whirl & Perceptor (Lost Light)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because I've read issue 47 and damn it, I know I should be obsessing over Cygate, but my brain is like 'No, write some Whirlceptor!" 
> 
> Warning spoilers for issue 47.

Perceptor stared at the space where Whirl's avatar had appeared, floating sideways and mumbling incoherently before vanishing.

"That was weird," Brainstorm remarked.

"Something's wrong," Perceptor murmured.

Whirl was usually lucid in his holoform. Annoying as the Pit, but not dazed and disorientated.

He started for the door.

"It was probably a prank Percy," Brainstorm called after him, "You know you're not supposed to leave me in the lab..."

He trailed off as Perceptor disappeared.

"Unsupervised," he finished.

He shrugged,

"Guess I'll keep working them."

With almost scary timing a message from Perceptor popped up over his comm.

::Don't touch anything explosive or flammable.::

"Maybe I should work on a machine that detects telepathy," Brainstorm mused, "Actually that's not such a bad idea..."

*

"Whirl?"

Perceptor entered the rotary's hab suite to find him on the floor.

"Nerd?" Whirl said weakly, "You here for frag? Not really in the mood..."

Perceptor fought back a huff and moved to Whirl's side,

"Whirl, your avatar just appeared in my lab all disorientated..."

"Huh?" Whirl's optic regarded him blearily, "You must be seeing things. I've been here... Whole time..."

His claw moved to his helm,

"Ugh, my head frikkin' hurts."

"Whirl, you might be concussed," Perceptor theorized, "I'll comm Velocity."

"Wait, first time you've visited," Whirl distracted him, "Might have cleaned, if I'd known..."

Perceptor felt a strange wave of... guilt? It was true he had never called on Whirl at his hab suite. Their arrangement had always taken place in Perceptor's lab, at the scientist's insistence. Whirl had never objected. Perceptor had never considered up until now that the rotary knew his preference wasn't just to do convenience. It was to avoid being seen entering Whirl's hab suite.

His optics briefly scanned the room,

"Your hab suite is quite orderly."

The only feature that lacked organisation was Whirl's collection of clocks.

Judging by the tools and Whirl's past as a watchmaker, it was easy enough to extrapolate that Whirl was their creator.

An impressive feat. Perceptor would have liked to watch him work. But Whirl would never allow that. For the same reason he hadn't bragged about their creation.

"You approve...." Whirl said feebly, "Oh... Goody."

Perceptor might have been relieved to hear the sarcasm in his voice. But Whirl still looked like he was on the brink of passing out.

"Whirl," he said firmly, "I'm trying to assist you..."

He attempted to drag him to his stabilizers. Whirl's claws scraped at his plating sluggishly.

"Maybe tiny blowjob... If you insist..."

"Whirl stop it, you need to see Velocity."

Whirl squirmed in his hold,

"No, I just... I need to lay down," he ended up collapsing against Perceptor, "Or stand. You... You be my pillow."

Perceptor locked his arms around him with a huff. At least Whirl was complacent in this position.

He went to comm Velocity, only to be distracted by a blinding surge of blue energy.

It swept over the two mecha like a tidal wave. Perceptor found himself knocked on his backstrut with Whirl falling on top of him.

"What in Primus was that?"

Whirl answered with a weak groan.

"My boner."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A small note, Percy arrived at Whirl's after Cyclonus had already been and left. Just in case anyone was finding the timing confusing.
> 
> Also, man MTMTE, why do you slap my face with so many feels!


	27. Megatron & Ravage (Lost Light)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Cause I've wanted to write MegsRavage for a long time.
> 
> Warning: I suppose this could be seen as bestiality though I personally don't think so. Ravage is a mech who happens to have an animal frame, not a mechanimal. Which is why I didn't include it in the tags. But if Ravage X anyone isn't your thing, maybe skip this one.
> 
> Ravage's holoform is based on the one I gave him in the fic, 'Holopidity'.

"I have a request," Ravage says.

Megatron lowers his datapad.

"Is it something to do with your holoform?"

There has to be a reason why Ravage is standing in his human guise.

"Yes," the severe-faced man answers, "I am testing the various functions of this form."

He trails off, inexplicably, smoothing the front of his stark black suit.

"And?" Megatron prompts.

Ravage clenches his claw-like hands at his sides and glances up,

"Some functions are better tested with the help of a second party."

"I see," Megatron says, "And you're asking me."

"If you would be willing to oblige," Ravage says, stiffly.

Megatron swings his legs over the side of the berth and leans forward,

"What would you have me do?" he asks.

For a moment Ravage actually looks nervous. But his red eyes hold Megatron's gaze without faltering.

"Kiss me."

Of all things, this isn't what Megatron is expecting. But then, he isn't sure _what_ he'd been expecting. 

"To test the sensory input of the lips," Ravage elaborates in the wake of his silence, narrow shoulders hunching, "I understand if the request is too presumptuous."

"No," Megatron says, "Merely unexpected."

He rises from the berth. Ravage's avatar isn't particularly tall. Megatron still towers over him. One finger hooks under Ravage's chin, lifting up his human helm, red eyes once again meeting his.

"If this is what you want, I won't deny you."

He leans down and presses his mouth to his pallid lips. They're softer than a mecha’s lip components, more fragile. Fragile like the rest of a human's frame. But there's strength in the way Ravage leans his weight up into the kiss, crushing his lips against Megatron's harder components with an almost reckless disregard for their structural integrity.

It confirms what Megatron has been coming to suspect. That there's something more to Ravage's request than clinical experimentation.

He growls when Megatron breaks the kiss. Issued from his avatar's voice box it sounds like a poor parody. Ravage suddenly looks embarrassed. Both by the lackluster sound and the fact he's vocalized it at all.

"Was it not to your liking?" he says.

"It was pleasant enough," Megatron replies, "But I don't feel much attraction to the human form. I'm not sure why you felt it was necessary, adopting this guise in order for me to kiss you."

Ravage tenses. Megatron strokes the severe contour of his cheekbone.

"Did you think I'd be too repulsed by your true form?" he says softly, "Me, of all mecha?"

Ravage looks to the floor in apparent shame,

"No," he murmurs, "No, I..."

Megatron moves to take hold of his hands,

"Deactivate your holoform."

Red eyes shoot upwards, startled. Megatron feels his body shift, as though he's debating whether to jerk out of his hold. He clasps his hands more tightly.

"Deactivate your holoform," he repeats.

Ravage complies, his human form shuddering out of focus, dissolving before Megatron's optics to reveal the symbiont's sleek feline frame. He seems awkward, supporting himself on his back legs while his front claws are encased by Megatron's hands. But the position suits Megatron's motive as he lowers his face to his black muzzle, pressing his lips against the flat line of Ravage's mouth.

He can feel Ravage's claws digging into his plating. Shock, he assumes, though Ravage seems to recover. Suddenly his mouth parts and his fangs sink into Megatron's bottom lip. Not in warning but in encouragement. Megatron's mouth curves around the pain. He extends his glossa. Ravage eases back his fangs, allowing Megatron inside his mouth, glossa mingling with his own before his denta sink down, pinning it place.

Not for long though, Ravage quickly realizes he prefers to tear at his lips than trap his tongue. Megatron happens to agree, despite the damage Ravage is causing, shredding the paint and leaving fang-size dents in his lip components. Its worth seeing Ravage abandon inhibition, give full vent to his desire. His desire for him, and Megatron gladly responds in kind.

He licks his lips when they finally break for reprieve. Amidst the sting, he can taste the bitterness of his energon. Ravage is watching him with concern. Megatron reassures him with a smirk.

"Superior, is it not?"

Ravage answers with a flash of denta. Then strains forward to claim Megatron's lips again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the words of Ron Burgundy, "that escalated quickly". I originally planned on Megs and Ravage doing some sweet kissing, but then I figured frag it, they would totally be up for some hardcore kissing/biting/sucking face. They both deserve some passion in their lives.


	28. Shockwave & Zeta Prime (Prewar)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was in the mood for some Senator Shockwave unrequited crush on Pax feels.
> 
> And I don't see Zeta in many fics, which kinda figures, since he turns out all evil :(

Pax and Zeta share a similar frame type. This was a factor in Shockwave choosing them for the Matrix modification. But more so he chose them for their beliefs. He trusts both would make good Primes, better than the likes of Nominus and Sentinel. That Cybertron will flourish under the protectorship of either.

But out of the two, Shockwave yearns more for Pax. And perhaps it's his punishment that Pax doesn't reciprocate his affections. In fact the officer seems oblivious to them. He's focused on Cybertron's future, as he should be, proof that Shockwave made the right choice in choosing him.

Still, it only makes him all the more desirable. All the more unattainable, so close yet beyond Shockwave's reach. Zeta, by contrast, was much more receptive to Shockwave's seductions. He's more ambitious than Pax and that might one day prove to be fatal flaw. But for now, Shockwave allows Zeta into his berth without much consideration of the consequences.

Because despite how much he tries, Shockwave isn't infallible. He lets Zeta bend him over and imagines he's Pax. It's not too difficult, with their similarity in size, in strength, though Shockwave supposes Pax would take him far more gently than Zeta.

At least this distinction ensures he'll never cry out the wrong designation, no matter how much he does so in his processor.

And what he does vocalize aloud he does so with the intention to stroke Zeta's ego, perhaps, in part, because he feels guilty for using him. 

"Ughh Zeta," he moans, as his large spike fills him. A spike he can imagine being similar in girth to Pax's, though he's becoming certain he'll never see it.

"Call me Prime," Zeta answers, mid-stroke.

So ambitious. So unlike Pax. Pax would never demand such a thing.

"You're not Prime yet," he reminds Zeta, softening the refusal with an indulgent chuckle.

He feels the slight increase of Zeta's weight baring down on him.

"Humor me," he says, and Shockwave hears an undercurrent of something beneath Zeta's cordial tone.

It unsettles him. He doesn't like it.

But at the same time Shockwave knows he's partly to blame. He is the one who took Zeta and changed him, told him he could be Prime.

Why deny him at this point?

"Prime," he moans, like some obedient pleasurebot, repeating it while Zeta holds him tight and frags him roughly to climax.

Afterwards the large mech clings to him on the berth, sated from overload. The unsettling feeling from earlier passes, though Shockwave's guilt persists. It always does.

Because in the midst of his overload, like all the previous that came before, in his mind's eye there was Pax.

"When are you meeting Pax again?" Zeta's question startles him.

Shockwave glances at his smiling expression and relaxes. The subject matter is obviously coincidence.

"Tomorrow," he answers, "Why do you ask?"

Zeta continues to smile.

"I'd like to meet him."

A frown plays on Shockwave's lips,

"You know that's impossible."

It's imperative to the secrecy of his plan that his candidates remain separated from each other. It's too risky for them to be seen interacting.

Shockwave can't say it doesn't suit his own preference. He prefers Zeta not meeting Pax, for fear of him noticing his fondness.

Zeta sighs,

"I'm going to meet him in the long run you know."

"Yes but mostly in the event I meet a ghastly end," Shockwave says in a purposely lighthearted tone, "Surely you aren't wishing that upon me."

"Of course not," Zeta lifts himself up on one elbow, expression almost theatrical in it's concern, "I would rather you stay alive."

He presses a kiss to Shockwave's mouth.

"When I'm Prime I want you at my side."

Again, that ambition, that sense of certainty that Zeta will be the one over all the others.

But Shockwave doesn't correct him. He's imagining Pax standing in the senate, the new resplendent, righteous Prime, Shockwave at his side.

The vision is interrupted by the feeling of a finger digging into his plating.

"I scratched some of your paint," Zeta says apologetically.

"No matter," Shockwave reassures him with a smile, "I'm due for new paint job."

Zeta returns the smile,

"Perhaps blue and gold," he suggests. His own colors.

But Shockwave already knows he'll choose blue and red.


	29. Kroma & Macabre (Prewar / During War)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why am I driven to write about horrible people? I dunno. But here is some Kroma/Macabre a.k.a. evil henchmech ship.

_Prewar..._

Macabre is waiting when Kroma is released from custody.

"So?" he asks, once they are out of earshot of the Garrus-9 transport officers.

Kroma grins,

"For a guy with no mouth, Whirl swallowed everything I told him."

Macabre matches his smile,

"So the plan's in motion then?"

"Yup," Kroma says as they stroll down the streets of Iacon, "Now we wait for the tip off."

"And how long do you think that will be?" Macabre inquires.

"Not long I'd imagine," Kroma says, "Once Shockwave gets word about the bomb from Pax, he'll act quickly."

And wander right into Proteus and Sentinel's trap.

"Gotta hand it to the Senator, he's one devious fragger," Kroma casts a sidelong glance at Macabre, "Not bad looking either."

Macabre scowls,

"Too flashy," he mutters.

"Says the mech with the horns," Kroma smirks, "I see you've polished 'em up real nice."

"Not for you," Macabre retorts.

"Yeah sure," Kroma shoves him into the nearest alleyway, "Don't act like you're not happy I noticed."

Macabre stubbornly maintains his surly facade,

"We're not far from our apartment. There's no need to do this here."

"Not like it's some squalid alley in Rodion," Kroma answers, "Bet your knees won't even get dirty."

He fingers the needle-like points of Macabre's audial spikes.

"C'mon Horns. Don't act like it doesn't get you hot. Beneath all that Tetrahexian pride of yours."

Macabre squirms. It's delightful to watch. Kroma replaces his fingers with his mouth, giving one of the spikes a slow suck, savoring the sharpness against his glossa. Macabre whimpers.

Kroma is grateful for his sensitive kibble. It makes him go to pieces so easily.

"Show daddy Kroma how much you missed him huh?"

He grins as Macabre sinks to his knees.

"Good mech," Kroma wraps his hands around Macabre's horns as the purple mech's tongue laves across his heated panel.

There's nothing he likes more than tugging on Macabre's horns as he deepthroats him, using his grip to drive himself deeper down his intake.

He knows Macabre likes it too. He can practically smell the lubricant pooling in his valve. Though the minute Kroma overloads, he's on feet grumbling as he wipes transfluid from his lips.

"You wrench my horns any harder, you're going to rip them off."

"You love it," Kroma retorts unapologetically.

"Not if you break my horns," Macabre adopts an aggravatingly somber tone, "I'm Clavis Aurea. I can't replace them."

"Oh what a bunch of slag," Kroma snorts, "Like you're gonna walk around without a horn 'cause your religion says it's not 'essential.'."

"It isn't essential," Macabre argues, "Compared to a spark or brain module, my horns are cosmetic."

"But what will I grip onto while you suck me huh?" Kroma reaches to run his hands up his horns, "These babies are essential in my processor Mac."

Macabre huffs,

"I'm not breaking with my traditions in order to satisfy your needs Kroma."

Even so he doesn't shove him away. Kroma feels the arousal in his field as he continues to slide his hands over his horns.

"Tell you what, if one ever snaps off, I'll glue it back on," he tells him, "That way you're not breaking your stupid beliefs."

"They're not..." Macabre cuts himself off with sigh, "I suppose technically that would be acceptable. Though I'd hardly trust you to do a decent job. I'll probably end up with a wonky horn."

"Least it would mark you as mine."

The remark leaves Macabre somewhat speechless. Kroma shoves him back up against the wall.

"Lemme see that sloppy valve," he croons, "It's mine too Horns."

Macabre exposes himself in silent, grudging agreement. Kroma smirks as he sinks his re-pressurized spike into his wet, clenching depths.

_During War..._

The leader of Squadron X stares the pair down,

"I'm surprised you would want to join the Decepticon cause. Considering your work for the Senate."

"That was the past," Kroma chirps, "The Senate's gone. You and your boss are the new heavies in town. We want in on the action."

"That isn't exactly a sterling example of loyalty," Valve says gruffly.

"Ha," Kroma laughs, "Weren't you an Autobot? A Wrecker. Loyalty is a fickle thing. What matters is what we can do for you."

Valve turns his attention to Macabre,

"You agree with your... partner?"

"We wish to serve," Macabre says with a more humble air. He wishes for once Kroma had let him do the talking.

Valve nods,

"Very well," he says, "Shoot him."

It takes Macabre a split second to properly grasp the order.

"What?" his gaze snaps to Kroma's stricken expression, "No, I..."

"You will," Valve says, "Or you both die."

Suddenly every weapon possessed by Squadron X is pointed in their direction.

"Hey c'mon mech," Kroma breaks in. He seems to have reassembled some of his cool, "What's the point in getting him to shoot me huh? For kicks? I'm a valuable resource."

"Springarm and Wheelarch," Valve answers, "The two police officers whose helms you decapitated and put on display in Pax's office, they were my brothers."

He lets the revelation hang in the air. After a beat Kroma sums up his situation in one word.

"Frag."

"At first I intended to avenge their lives by snuffing out yours personally," Valve goes on, "But I think this way will be far more satisfying."

He turns back to Macabre,

"Kill him," he repeats the order, "Surely it's not worth dying for this piece of scrap. If he was in your position he would kill you."

Macabre opens his mouth to object. But swiftly closes it. His fingers tremble over the trigger of his gun.

He knows what he has to do. He forces himself to look at Kroma. There's something in his optics he's never seen before.

Fear.

His lips twitch in a nervous smile.

"Hey," he appeals to him, "Mac, you..."

"Sorry," Macabre whispers and pulls the trigger.

Kroma drops with a gaping hole in his chestplate.

Macabre watches the smoke billowing from the fatal wound.

He can barely hear Valve's next words.

"Welcome to Squadron X."

_Pova..._

It's Kroma's death that comes to Macabre as Impactor looms in front of him, gun raised.

He knows what's coming. Feels that rush of fear that Kroma must have felt, realizing that their history together mounted to nothing, not when it came to Macabre saving his own frame.

This moment is comeuppance finally arriving, he supposes.

Still, he doesn't want to die. Not now. Please not now.

But Impactor is fierce and unforgiving. And his first shot is reserved for Macabre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think it's ever stated if Kroma actually blabbed to Whirl in prison knowing he would blab to Pax but I think it's entirely possible, being Whirl's handler, that he knew what he was likely to do. 
> 
> It's also never mentioned what happened to Kroma during the war but I'm assuming he was killed. In this case by Macabre in order to join Squadron X. It's never stated that Macabre was Clavis Aurea either, I just assumed due to his horns that he was. 
> 
> Valve was a Wrecker prior to defecting to the Decepticons. Maybe he got sick of the Wreckers making 'valve jokes', though I'm sure it was for something less trivial than that.


	30. Impactor & Guzzle (Pre-SotW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because I read the first issue of SotW and the Guzzle in the box thing, and I just had to write some Impactor and Guzzle.

"Is that all you've got?" Guzzle grunts as Impactor slams into the younger Wrecker's valve, "Is that all you've got?"

Impactor grinds his dentae in frustration. It isn't so much the heckling... Well, it's a part of it. But mostly it's the fact his plan is going to slag. He thought fragging the kid would knock some aggression out of him. Quite the opposite. It's only made him worse. Granted he's not in the middle of a rampage. But that doesn't make his attitude any easier to deal with.

Impactor fights the urge to punch his lights out and end it. But he's stubborn. Stubborn as Guzzle, which is the crux of the fragging problem. Guzzle is too much like him. Far too much like him. Impactor is usually the one doing the heckling. This time the pede's on the other stabilizer and Impactor detests it. Detests it as much as realizing that Guzzle is a mirror held up to his fragging face.

"Gettin' tired?" Guzzle huffs, jerking around his spike, "C'mon, I ain't even close."

Impactor lets out a snarl, readjusting the grip of his harpoon barbs around Guzzle's alt barrel.

"Neither am I, you little glitch. Your sass isn't a turn on."

"Ha," Guzzle's voice is thick with derision, "You wanna give me some pointers? Tell me what Springer used to do to get you hot..."

Impactor's fist slams down on his helm before he can stop himself.

"Don't you talk about him! Not here. Not now."

"Why not?" Guzzle grits out, "Least it's makin' things interesting. C'mon, hurt me some more, big mech."

The demand falls on deaf audials. Impactor's fist withdraws to the space above Guzzle's writhing hip, optics on the dent left in his helm. Damn the kid, making him lose control. Damn himself for losing control.

"We're fragging Guzzle," he tries to be diplomatic, "Not fighting."

"Same dif," Guzzle retorts, "Whatsamatter. You think I can't take it? Huh? Is that what the mighty Impactor thinks?"

He kicks one pede backwards at Impactor's knee. Impactor barely feels the impact. It's more the words. The tone. All the meaning behind them. Once again he struggles to reign in his frustration. He uses his grip on Guzzle's barrel to shift him off his hands and knees, locking him in a rough backwards embrace.

"I think you can take it," beneath the low growl of his voice, he can hear the quiet desperation, "I think you can take a lot. But you don't have to, Guzzle."

Guzzle wriggles in his hold, still impaled by his spike.

"Frag you mech. Either put up or shut up. Stop wastin' both our time."

Impactor is silent. It would be so easy in this position to shift his arms to his neck and wrench 'til his helm popped clean off.

Put him out of his misery. Sometimes he thinks that would be better. Kill the monster he helped create. But he knows he won't. Because Guzzle isn't an enemy. He's a Wrecker, Impactor's Wrecker. And Impactor deserves his scorn as much as he feels obligated to help him. Undo his damage. Somehow.

But the how, so far, seems beyond Impactor's reach. As far beyond his reach as Springer in his coma.

At the very least fragging the kid into recharge will buy him some time to figure it out.

He thrusts him back down on his hands and knees.

"Alright," he growls, "You asked for this."

"Fraggin' finally," Guzzle quips back as Impactor's good hand clamps on his shoulder, holding the younger mech in place as he resumes pounding into him with newfound animosity.

Guzzle's backstrut arches against the onslaught, his fingers scratch the floor. But he isn't silenced. Not by a long shot.

"Harder," he demands, "Harder. You think I'm gonna break? I won't break. Not from your old spike."

The verbal blow is lessened by the hissing emergence of static. Impactor is relieved at the feeling of him running hotter and hotter, calipers whirring and straining around his spike as he battles to push him into overload-induced shutdown.

And overload Guzzle does, still spewing insults. So does Impactor, more out of bodily compulsion than want. He works his spike out of the seemingly limp Guzzle, only for the tank to flip over, optics dim but still online.

"The bes' you got?" he slurs, to which Impactor responds with a punch.

It finishes the job. Impactor shifts the smaller Wrecker to the berth then charts a course back to Debris. He isn't sure how it'll help, if he's even prepared to face Springer's condition on top of the slag with Guzzle.

But frag it, he's all out of ideas. And Debris is the only place he's ever called home.


	31. Rung & Brainstorm (Post Time Travel, AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU Time Travel premise where Brainstorm travels back in time to save Quark from Grindcore by bringing him into the present. He also saves Froid as well due to Quark refusing to leave without him.
> 
> Quark/Froid. Unrequited Brainstorm/Quark. Past Rung/Froid. Basically feels, peoples, alotta feels.

"I wanted to talk," Rung said, "If that's okay."

"Sure," Brainstorm gestured around his cell, "Not like I'm going anywhere."

He sighed,

"I suppose you want to know why."

"That would be a good place to start."

"Primus," Brainstorm gave a dry chuckle, "Why does any mech go to the trouble of building a working time machine, using it to jump back to a specific point in time and bring a certain mech to the present."

"Love," Rung said quietly.

"Love," Brainstorm echoed.

"But you didn't bring back Quark only," Rung pointed out.

"Trust me, saving your old buddy wasn't part of the original plan," Brainstorm said, "I wasn't even aware he and Quark were cellmates in Grindcore, let alone..."

He trailed off abruptly. Rung waited patiently for him to continue.

"He wouldn't leave without him. I tried to convince him. I was sure bringing Quark into the present from Grindcore wouldn't have a massive impact on the timeline. It was the place he was going to die. But with Froid, I had no way of knowing. It was a risk I frankly wasn't willing to take."

Brainstorm's hands wrenched at his kneeplates,

"But Quark, he.... He was already so confused when I showed up. Confused and afraid. He didn't even trust me at first. Froid was the one who talked him around. He _listened_ to him. Except when he said to leave without him. Quark lost it. And I knew, I knew it would have broken his spark. And I couldn't bear to do that to him. Even though it meant..."

"That you couldn't have him to yourself?" Rung finished softly.

Brainstorm nodded,

"I always had this idea of what life with Quark would be like once I rescued him. That we would be together. Like Chromedome and Rewind. Stupid really. We were never like Chromedome and Rewind. Quark never... Never even knew I loved him. And he never loved me."

He gazed off into space before unexpectedly squaring his shoulders,

"But that's okay. He still deserved to be saved. I don't regret my decision. Just knowing that he's alive. That he has a chance to be happy. That's... That's something right?"

"Yes, that's something," Rung said, "I think that's very selfless of you Brainstorm."

Brainstorm gave a weak chuckle,

"That's me. Selfless Brainstorm. D'you mind saying that at my trial?"

"If the jury asks for my opinion, yes," Rung answered.

Brainstorm nodded somewhat distractedly,

"I'm surprised you're not a bit more peeved. From what I heard, you and Froid had a lot of bad energon between you."

"Once upon a time," Rung said, "And I admit that when I first saw Froid, all the resentment from the past came boiling to the surface. Even though I knew it was wrong. It was obvious from Froid's appearance how much he had suffered. But all I could think was what he had done to me. All those years ago. But then Froid saw me and do you know what he did?"

"Uh, I was kinda distracted by the whole being escorted to the brig in chains."

"He ran over and embraced me," Rung's voice shook ever so slightly, "His arms felt so weak and his vocalizer was hoarse. I could barely hear what he was saying at first. But he kept repeating himself over and over. 'I'm sorry Rung. I'm so sorry'."

Rung removed his glasses and dabbed at his optics.

"You're crying," Brainstorm noted with surprise.

Rung replaced his glasses over his optics and smiled,

"I loved Froid once. Before our differences drove us apart. He damaged my reputation and I never forgave him for it. Until I heard him speak those words."

His hands pressed against the barrier separating Brainstorm and himself.

"Without your intervention I would have spent the rest of my life resenting Froid, never knowing how he truly felt while he was imprisoned in Grindcore. For that I am utterly grateful."

Brainstorm smiled a little beneath his faceplate,

"Once again, would really appreciate you saying this at my trial," he attempted to joke, "Guess there's no hope of you and Froid gettin' back together though. He and Quark are attached at the hip."

"It's understandable," Rung said, "Given their shared experience. Froid and I did talk later on, while Quark was reacquainting himself with Nightbeat. He told me that Quark reminded him of me. The glasses you see. But then he fell in love with Quark as a mech."

"He is adorable," Brainstorm said softly, "Though it takes a certain mech to see it."

"I don't begrudge Froid moving on," Rung said, "What we had in the past, I'll always have that. And perhaps we can rebuild our professional relationship. Work together like we used to. But I don't need him to be in love with me again. Having him here, alive, that's enough."

"I think I get what you're saying," Brainstorm said.

"You do?"

Brainstorm nodded,

"Kinda nice to know we're in the same boat... Except for the whole me-awaiting-trial-thing."

"I can see you meant well Brainstorm," Rung said, "Don't doubt that others won't see that too."

Brainstorm forced a shrug,

"I guess we'll see."

But deep down he hoped Rung was right.


	32. Ratchet, Drift & Thunderclash (Lost Light)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because if Drift, Ratchet and Thunderclash were in a relationship, Ratchet would have to put up with twice the amount of hippy shit. But he would also get twice the amount of cuddles.
> 
> And I can't help myself, I like Thunderclash (so far) and he needs love too.

Ratchet's systems rebooted sluggishly and he groped blindly across only to swipe air. He frowned, also noting the absence of plating pressed against his backstrut. Optics onlining, he wrenched himself upright in the large empty berth.

Drift and Thunderclash were sitting cross-legged on the floor, side by side, in the middle of their daily meditation. Ratchet watched them a moment, the way their fingers were entwined, bridging the gap between them, before clearing his vocalizer.

Drift's optics onlined first. He smiled up at the medic,

"Morning Ratch. It's a yellow day."

"Yes," Thunderclash agreed pleasantly, "Very yellow. Sublimely yellow."

Ratchet fought the urge to lug his mesh pillow at them. Their hippy dippy aura-seeing was hard to take in mornings. Especially when Ratchet wasn't a morning person.  But he couldn't help what they believed. And for the most part he was glad that they could share their spirituality with each other. Primus knew Ratchet was skeptical about the whole 'seeing colors' thing. 

But all endura had their quirks. Thunders and Drift never complained about Ratchet being a grumpy aft. The least Ratchet could do was play along with their mumbo jumbo.

"Yeah yellow, sure," he grumbled, "Come back to the berth, I'm cold."

Thunders and Drift shared a smile before rising from their meditative position. The bigger mech resumed his usual recharging stance on the berth, spooning Ratchet's frame, one massive arm reaching across Ratchet's side to reach Drift who was cuddling up to Ratchet's front.

Ratchet smiled, cocooned by warm plating. Maybe it was a yellow day after all.


	33. Red Alert, Fort Max & Roboids (Luna 1)

It was Red Alert's turn to stay awake while Fort Maximus recharged. It was a duty he took very seriously, like the rest of his more official duties. Max deserved to rest knowing Red Alert was keeping him - both of them - safe. Which is why the scraping sound coming from the air vent was of particular concern.

To his credit Red Alert did consider he might be mishearing things. He was reluctant to wake Max up over nothing, even though Max would take the matter seriously. He never laughed at Red. Still, he looked so peaceful, components quietly whirring in recharge, one large hand cupped over Red's.

But the more Red Alert strained his audials, the convinced he was that the sound wasn't a figment of his imagination. In fact the sound was growing closer. Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. It made Red Alert think of claws. His processor automatically jumped to a sparkeater.

What if a sparkeater had been hidden away somewhere on Luna 1, just like the one on the _Lost Light_. Fear rose in Red Alert's spark as he continued to listen. The scraping noises were uneven, disjointed, almost as though there was more than one creature making the sound.

Slag, a pack of sparkeaters. Was that even possible? Red Alert didn't even understand how one had managed to breach this far into the main operations center. He had put so many safety protocols in place, installed a myriad of cameras. Max had approved, in the wake of Tyrest's enigmatic escape from confinement.

So how had... Red Alert forced himself not to dwell on his failing as Security Director. This was a life or death situation. The sparkeater, sparkeaters presumably, were deathly close. His optics roved to his blaster, on a stand near the berth. He might have reached it, if not for the weight of Max's arm over his frame.

Scrape, scrape, scrape.

Oh slag. Oh slag. Oh slag. Need to wake Max. Need to...

The grate of the air vent popped open and Red Alert's spark seized with terror.

Too late. Too....

Something small dropped from the vent onto the floor. Far too small for a sparkeater. Red Alert strained his helm to look.

The weasel Roboid picked itself off the floor and stared up at him.

Red Alert stared back dumbly for a moment. Finally his vocalizer unfroze.

"Blast it," he swore at it, "I thought you were a sparkeater."

The Roboid continued to stare placidly. Little Red, the Luna 1 crew had taken to calling him. There was more noise from the grate. Red Alert's gaze shot upwards to see more Roboids crammed together in the tight space. For a moment Red thought they were stuck, writhing into an attempt to dislodge themselves. One of the avian Roboids, Bluebeak, managed to squeeze free, flying from the grate and landing on Max's helm.

"Shoo," Red Alert hissed, "You'll wake him."

He cringed at the sound of the rest of the Roboids toppling from the grate and landing in a pile. Red worried for a moment that they had hurt themselves. But their tiny beast frames seemed to recover quickly. All at once they began moving towards the berth.

"No," Red admonished uselessly, "Go back to your quarters. Go..."

The order went ignored. The Roboids piled onto the berth and proceeded to make themselves comfortable.

"Max," Red felt he had no choice but to seek assistance, "Max, wake up."

Fort Max came online rapidly at the sound of his voice,

"Red?"

His optics onlined and took in the Roboids with surprise.

"We're surrounded," Red Alert whispered frantically.

"It appears so."

"I tried to stop them."

"I believe you. They are very persistent."

"What should we do?"

"I can transport them back to their quarters," Max said, as the beaver Roboid, Pinky, was nuzzling up to his neck cables, "If you aren't comfortable with them staying."

Red was about to admit he wasn't. He felt a little overwhelmed, with so many tiny frames nestled around him. But then he once again locked gazes with Little Red, sitting up on his chest. His blue optics seem to shatter all Red's resolve. 

"I suppose one night wouldn't hurt."

After all it was better the Roboids were here, not running amok over the base. Their frames weren't exactly uncomfortable either. Warm in fact. And... Red Alert didn't really use terms like 'cute' but it probably applied here. He watched Little Red curl up on his chest.

"Sorry I woke you," he told Fort Max, "Go back to recharge. I'll keep watch."

He would keep watch over all of them.


	34. Rung & Kup (Pre Lost Light)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because me and Insec were talking about edible paint and Kup and Rung seem like happy experimental types :)

Rung held out the pot of paint almost shyly.

“I thought we could try this.”

“Edible paint,” Kup read the label with a smirk, “Ain’t seen this stuff in a while.”

“Candy-flavored,” Rung said, “I thought it was appropriate.”

It was no secret that the therapist had a sweet tooth. Kup was always commenting on the fact his kisses tasted of energon sticks. But this, this was a whole new level of interesting.

“Ya know ya always managed ta surprise me Rung.”

“Is that an expression of interest?” Rung asked, hiding his excitement behind a sweet little smile.

Kup popped open the lid and scooped up a dollop of paint on his finger,

“It’s a ‘get ya aft over here so I can turn ya inta a masterpiece’."

_**_

“How was your sleepover?” Springer asked when Kup arrived on Debris.

The old mech shot him a giddy grin,

“Grand lad. I ate alotta candy.”

Springer smiled,

“Looks more like you got fragged upside down and sideways.”

Kup gave him a pitying look,

“Springer, lad, if you can’t bridge those two thoughts together, I feel sorry for ya.”

Springer shook his helm fondly as the older mech swaggered away,

“Whatever you say, old timer.”


	35. Atomizer & Getaway (Lost Light)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I know I should be hating on these two, instead I wanna write about them :( Set pre-#47

"You could always stay over in my suite," Getaway said as he walked Tailgate back to his own hab suite, "It's closer to Visages."

"That sounds fun. Maybe another time," Tailgate fidgeted a little, "I gotta check on Cyclonus anyway. Make sure he's okay."

Getaway shook his helm,

"You really put yourself out there for him don't you scout," his hand grasped Tailgate's spaulder in consolation, "It's a shame he doesn't really appreciate it."

"He does," Tailgate glanced off to one side, "I think, he's just... Well he's Cyclonus."

"I just don't want to see you get hurt scout," Getaway patted his spaulder, "I'll see you tomorrow okay."

Tailgate broke from his pensive state with a slight reel,

"Yeah. Catch you Getaway."

Getaway allowed himself to sigh as he rounded the corner. It was hard work, keeping up the charade around the kid. Listen to his prattle, pretending to be interested, pretending he didn't want to slap him every time he mentioned Cyclonus. At least his efforts seemed to be bearing fruit.

His optics picked up a shadow along the hallway. Getaway raised his helm to discern the mech's identity.

"Atomizer."

"Hey," the crossbow enthusiast greeted him.

Getaway found himself shoved into a nearby utility closet. In the cramped darkness he heard the _snk_ of a panel, olfactory sensors inhaling the strong scent of lubricant as it splashed onto Getaway's thigh, wedged between Atomizer's legs.

"Frag me," Atomizer breathed and rutted against him.

Getaway resisted. They were supposed to be more discreet than this. Atomizer knew it.

"I saw you lurking at Visages," he reproached.

"Lurking? Atomizer scoffed, "You mean drinking with Sprocket and Slapdash?"

"You kept glancing our way."

"I wasn’t the only one. You and Tailgate are the gossip of the _Lost Light_. 'Will they? Won’t they? Is Cyclonus still moping in his hab suite?'."

Atomizer continued to hump against him as he talked. Getaway tried to ignore his spike pressurizing inside its housing.

"You're not jealous are you?" he murmured.

The glow from Atomizer's visor flared in objection,

"Jealous of the pawn you're grooming towards certain death?" he said, "Hardly."

Getaway dipped a finger into the wetness of his valve. Atomizer whimpered, calipers clenching in an attempt to capture the digit. But Getaway withdrew, holding it up to the light of Atomizer's visor, admiring its translucent sheen.

"Maybe you're afraid I'm a little too convincing."

Atomizer huffed quietly,

"If you weren't convincing, the plan wouldn't work. But it's still an act."

This time Getaway ground against him.

"How do you know this isn't an act?"

"Because you wouldn't tell me," Atomizer added after a pause, "Because it isn't."

"Are you sure?" Getaway breathed, "I'm a very good actor."

Atomizer looped his arms around his neck, dragging them closer.

"We're in this together Getaway," he murmured, "I'm all you have."

Getaway felt a prickle of resentment. It was the truth, but the way Atomizer said, was reminiscent of a threat.

"What about Whirl?"

Atomizer scoffed,

"Would you prefer to frag Whirl in a closet?"

Getaway blanched at the image. Atomizer nuzzled his faceplate to his, grinding his hips. The eagerness was enough to mellow Getaway. He allowed himself to chuckle.

"You win," his array sprang open and he maneuvered his spike roughly into Atomizer's valve.

Afterwards they slumped as best they could on the cramped floor, legs awkwardly entwined.

"How long 'til he's ready?" Atomizer asked.

"Soon," Getaway replied, "Very soon."

"Good. I'm sick of utility closets," Atomizer wriggled to emphasize his discomfort, "At least when this is over, I can visit your hab suite on the pretense of consoling you."

His hand sought Getaway's arm in the dark, 

"Before you know it, we can tell everyone how I pulled you through the bad times. How you asked me to move in. I'm already thinking about redecorating. I have some wonderful ideas..."

Getaway was silent. He wasn't that much interested in interior design, though Atomizer did have a demonstrated flare for it. He was mostly thinking of the mission. How he would arrive at Tailgate's door the next cycle to pick him up. How they would head to Swerve's for morning energon, Tailgate presumably on his hoverboard. How he would suggest they spend the day fishing in the oil reservoir. 

"You're not having second thoughts," Atomizer broke through his contemplation.

"No. Of course not," Getaway assured him, "It has to be done."

They had to be rid of Megatron. By any means necessary.

"For the greater good," Atomizer whispered, clutching his arm.

"For the greater good," Getaway echoed.


	36. Getaway & Skids (Lost Light)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Getaway. Since I was re-reading the last issue and Getaway says something to the effect of "there's people on the ship that I love" and the thought occurred that he was genuinely referring to Skids.
> 
> Pre-issue 47.

"Getaway," Skids speaks his designation as soon as he enters his hab suite and finds him on his berth. Shoulders slumped, helm lowered in what Getaway knows is enough to communicate depression. He makes his voice noticeably small and cheerless as he answers,

"Hey, I let myself in," unable to fight his curiosity (or perhaps suspicion), he adds, "Where were you?"

Skids ventures into the room, a frown indicating he's taken notice of Getaway's posture.

"With Eyebrows," Skids corrects himself with a guilty sort of grimace, "Rung."

Getaway tries not to bristle. What Skids sees in the nerdbot he has no idea. But he swallows his jealousy, masking it behind a deep ex-vent.

"What's wrong?" Skids asks, settling next to him on the berth.

Getaway fights the urge to shift closer. Instead he averts his gaze sorrowfully to the floor.

"Oh it's just... The whole Tailgate situation. It doesn't seem to matter how many hints I drop, he doesn't seem to catch on."

Skids touches his shoulder in consolation. Getaway luxuriates in it, the sensation of his fingers, despite the intention behind it.

"He is a little naive," Skids says, "Maybe you should be more upfront with him, if you like him so much."

Getaway turns to him, crinkling his optics in a show of anxiety,

"I'm afraid to, Skids. All he talks about is _Cyclonus_. What if I tell him my feelings and he rejects me?"

Skids' expression is solemn, concerned. Getaway luxuriates in that too. The visible sign that Skids cares for him.

"At least then you would know," his friend says.

Getaway forces out another sigh, of indecision. All the while he's enjoying the caress of Skids' fingers.

"You're right," he says finally, "Thanks buddy."

"Not a problem," Skids smiles, then withdraws his fingers in a sign of mission accomplished.

Getaway mourns the absence, though he waits out a deliberate pause before saying,

"Suppose I'll always have you, if Tailgate turns me down. Right Skids."

Skids seems slightly taken aback. But he smiles.

"Course you will," he assures him and it's sweet reassurance to his ears. Because Skids is the only one who he wants.

Tailgate is an act. A means to an end. His spark has always belonged to Skids. And once the business with Megatron is out of the way, Getaway will have his chance to win Skids to himself. Win him back from Eyebrows and Swerve and the rest.

It seems easy. Getaway will be understandably upset over Tailgate's death. Skids, as his friend, will comfort him. One thing will lead to another...

Then they'll finally be together, like they should have been, before being separated.

Getway is determined they won't separated again. Not by any fate, especially not by Megatron's hands. If the evil glitch is allowed to remain on the _Lost Light_ , Skids' life is in as much danger as their crew mates. That's why Getaway is going to such lengths, grooming Tailgate, the necessary sacrifice to ensure Skids' survival.

He knows if Skids learns the truth, he'll hate him. He's fond of the minibot. But Getaway has been careful in making sure that his plan won't be uncovered. He'll carry the secret to his grave, and that in itself seems like penance. He'll live with the fact that he sent an innocent bot to his death to spare others the same fate.

But he'll also have Skids.

"Bomp," he gently taps a fist to Skids' chin.

For once Skids seems amused instead of irked by the gesture.

"This is a bomp moment?"

"Not really," Getaway feigns sheepishness, "Just wanted to cut through all this sentimentality."

Skids snorts,

"Weirdo," he says fondly.

"Takes one to know one," Getaway retorts and taps his fist lovingly to his chin, "Bomp."


	37. Getaway & Atomizer II (Lost Light)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So the latest issue happened and I'm back to shipping Getaway and Atomizer.
> 
> Warning spoilers for the issue #48. 
> 
> Also, in case this is the last thing I post before Christmas. Merry Christmas. Enjoy my decidedly un-festive offering.

"Why?" Getaway murmurs in the dim light of their cell.

Atomizer doesn't bother to lift his helm from his spaulder. He hasn't shifted from Getaway's side since Magnus locked them in the cell. He had tried to confine them separately, only for Atomizer to put up more struggle. Magnus eventually resigned to shoving them in together, the arrows embedded in his plating demanding medical attention. He had left, dripping splatters of energon on the floor.

Getaway has been silent up until now, massaging his neck tubing, sore from Magnus thrusting him up against the hallway wall.

"Don't you mean how?" Atomizer asks, "How were we found out?"

"You mean how _I_ was found out," Getaway says, "I'd say there's limited possibilities."

His hand drops from his neck tubing,

"I meant why did you attack Magnus? You could have just let me be arrested. Not implicate yourself."

"I suppose," Atomizer admits, "Probably not a smart move in hindsight."

"So you regret it?" Getaway asks.

Atomizer is silent a moment. 

"I couldn't let you go down for this on your own," he says finally, "We were in this together, for better or worse."

Getaway gives a dry chuckle,

"You make it sound like we're endura or something."

"Is that a bad thing?" Atomizer asks.

"No," Getaway answers honestly, "Actually it's kinda comforting."

"You remember the utility closet?" Atomizer says, "How I said I was all you have?"

"Yeah."

"Well, you're the only one I have too. And when Magnus was trying to haul you away, I lost it because... I thought I was going to lose you."

Getaway turns his helm to see the sad gleam in Atomizer's visor.

"Atomizer," he cups the side of the mech's face.

Atomizer seems to grimace,

"Sorry, don't mean to get all mushy. Especially when we should be trying to plan a way out of this mess. Any ideas?"

Getaway turns his attention back to the layout of their cell.

"I'll think of something," he assures him.

He pulls Atomizer's hand into his lap, brushes his fingers across his palm.

"Not all that schooled in hand," Atomizer murmurs, "What does it mean?"

"Think you can guess," Getaway answers.

He feels Atomizer tense with surprise. But then his fingers wriggle in a desperate attempt to interlock with Getaway's, squeezing his hand tightly. Getaway squeezes back. They sit there a while, like this, until Atomizer breaks the silence,

"If we don't bust out, what do you think will happen to us?"

"Trial more than likely," Getaway speculates, "So everything's nice and official. Deportation back to Cybertron. Possible imprisonment."

"You don't reckon they'll be lenient like with Brainstorm?"

"I doubt it. Brainstorm never roped in an innocent like Tailgate."

"You could argue Brainstorm influenced Rewind into killing Megatron."

"Unwittingly," Getaway points out, "It wasn't pre-meditated. I can't see us being portrayed as anything but bad guys."

Atomizer squeezes Getaway's hand, this time in frustration,

"While Megatron walks free, until he eventually implodes and massacres everybody. If anyone has any sense they would understand what we were trying to prevent."

"It's the _Lost Light_ ," Getaway ex-vents, "There's not a lot of sense going around."

Atomizer nods soberly in agreement,

"Guess I won't get to decorate our hab suite after all," he says regretfully, "I already had this cross-bow print picked out."

Getaway's amusement feels bittersweet,

"What makes you think I would have agreed to that?"

"Could have threatened you with my cross-bow," Atomizer attempts to joke, "Ironic persuasion."

Getaway actually laughs, the sound echoing hollowly in the confines of the cell.

"You should bomp me," he says.

"What?"

"Bomp me. That was bomp worthy."

"You've never invited me to partake in the bomp," Atomizer says almost shyly.

"There's a first time for everything," Getaway says, "Bomp me."

Atomizer curls his free hand into a fist and raps his knuckles on Getaway's chin.

"Bomp," he says, visor brightening, "Hey that feels good. I can see why you do it."

"Finally a mech with some sense."

He pulls Atomizer close, desperately close,

"Atomizer, don't take this the wrong way, but I'm glad you stupidly pulled that cross-bow on Magnus."

Atomizer settles his helm back against his spaulder,

"Me too."


	38. Kroma & Macabre II (Prewar)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't know why but I wanted to write more evil henchmech buddies. Mostly because I have this headcanon that Macabre was sorta Cyclonus' apprentice in the Clavis Aurea.

Macabre only hit Kroma once. Friendly rough housing aside, though Macabre always took rough housing a little more seriously than Kroma did. But the only time he sincerely hit him in outrage was over the memorial. More specifically Kroma lobbing a mouthful of Kremzeek on it out of boredom. Waiting around for their next assignment was always tedious. Kroma found himself floored no sooner had the sludge-like glob made contact with the surface.

“What the frag Macabre?” he rubbed his jaw.

Macabre loomed over him. For the first time Kroma realized just how demonic his partner’s spikes were, coupled with his foreboding expression.

“Is nothing sacred to you? This memorial is for the crew of the Ark 1.”

“So?” Kroma said petulantly, “What do I care?”

“These mecha braved the unknown to expand our Empire,” Macabre growled, “Don’t you think that’s worthy of one iota of your respect.”

Kroma sneered,

“Horns, I _respect_ money. I _respect_ a decent blow job _._ I don’t respect a bunch of ‘bots I never met, who disappeared with nothing to show for it.”

Macabre pointed at one of the designations,

“Cyclonus of Upper Tetrahex,” he said, “He was my mentor, during my novitiate in the Clavis Aurea.”

Ah, Kroma thought. Now the punch made sense. So did the fact Macabre always seemed to prefer this spot to loiter. Kroma picked himself up off the ground.

“What, so I’m supposed to care now?”

Macabre sighed at his lack of apology,

“Care enough not to deface his memorial. Surely that’s not too great a request.”

Kroma grinned,

“Didn’t Shockwave front the bill for it?” he said slyly, “Funny to think you’re protecting something he built.”

Macabre frowned,

“It doesn’t matter who built it,” he said, “It’s the purpose behind it.”

He subspaced a cloth - he usually kept one handy for more messy assignments, though most of the time it was deployed during their post-mission frag clean-up - and attempted to wipe the memorial clean.

“I don’t ask for much, Kroma. Our line of work isn’t exactly noble. But this is one thing I prefer not to be tainted.”  

“Sheesh alright,” Kroma grumbled as he watched Macabre fussily scrub at the flecks of Kremzeek and spittle, “If I’d known you’d glitch so much, I wouldn’t have done it.”

Macabre glanced sourly over his shoulder,

“Is this you promising not to do it again?”

“Whatever you want baby,” Kroma threw him a grin before grimacing, “That punch really hurt.”

He rubbed at his jaw, trying not to grin again when Macabre’s expression betrayed the teeniest hint of remorse.

“You deserved it,” he grumbled in justification.

Kroma put on his best pout,  

“Will you make it better?”

Macabre sighed. He turned his attention back to the memorial.

“How?” he asked, resuming his scrubbing.

Kroma swaggered up behind him,

“You could do a lil something to take my mind off it,” he said, grinding his interface panel into his aft.

He swore he heard Macabre gnashing his dentae.

“In the closest alleyway I’m assuming.”

Kroma toyed with his helm spike,

“Well, I assume you don’t want to do it in front of your precious memorial,” he cooed over his shoulder, “Not very _respectful_ y’know.”

More dentae grinding. Macabre continued to scrub the surface of the memorial.

“Let me finish cleaning your mess first.”

Kroma roped his arms around Macabre’s middle smugly and waited. When Macabre finally decided the memorial was spotless, he allowed Kroma to drag him into a deserted side street.

“I applied to be part of the first Ark,” Macabre said unexpectedly as he sunk to his knees.

“Yeah?” Kroma said, impatiently freeing his spike, “What happened?”

Macabre lightly brushed his spike with a mournful expression,

“Cyclonus said I wasn’t ready. I still hadn’t completed my spiritual training.”

Kroma ground forward into Macabre’s hand,

“Probably for the best,” he said with a slight groan.

Macabre looked up at him. Somehow from this angle, despite the horns, he always looked so delectably vulnerable. Especially with that frown on his face.

“Why?”

Kroma grinned down at him,

“’Cuz now you’re here, with me.”

Macabre stared at the spike he was palming with dull optics,

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better how?”

“Well it makes me feel better,” Kroma groaned as Macabre’s lips wrapped around his spike, “Much, _much_ better. _”_

Thank you Cyclonus of whatever place, he thought, gleefully sliding his hands around Macabre’s horns.


	39. Drift & Ratchet III (Lost Light)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fluffy Dratchet for New Year's. Non-Asexual Drift in this one.

“You know what’s funny?” Drift said as he cuddled up to Ratchet’s side.

The medic gave a sluggish grumble,

“That your first sentence after ‘facing is ‘you know what’s funny?’”

Drift smiled into his plating,

“Well I suppose it’s more interesting than funny.”

“Just tell me,” Ratchet groaned.

“You’re an evolutionary engineerist,” Drift said, “You believe in atechnogenesis…”

“Drift I’m really not in the mood for a theological debate,” Ratchet sighed, “I have a shift in three joors.”

“I’m not trying to convert you,” Drift soothed him, “I respect your beliefs and you respect mine.”

Ratchet seemed to relax at this. His hand strayed to Drift’s finial.

“So what’s this all about?”

Drift pressed a swift kiss to his plating,

“I just thought it was interesting that when we interface, you always cry out to Primus.”

Ratchet was silent a moment.

“Do I?”

“Hmm,” Drift smiled, “Just then, ‘Primus, Primus’ over and over.”

Ratchet cleared his vocalizer,

“Heat of the moment,” he said gruffly, “I don’t accuse you of blasphemy because you’re crying out ‘Ratchet, Ratchet’.”

Drift laughed softly,

“I should teach you how to sword fight, you’re good at parrying.”

Ratchet made a noise between a grunt and a chuckle,

“I’m even better at recharging. Watch.”

He offlined his optics. Drift listened to the sound of his systems powering down into recharge.

“Good recharge Ratchet,” he murmured fondly.


	40. Helex, Vos & Kaon (Peaceful Tyranny)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because I <3 Helex/Vos/Kaon threesome lately.

Some mecha might assume that Helex killing 'bots in his smelter was his happy place. But they were wrong. That was his job and though he did go to a certain place when he was doing it, it wasn't his happy place.

His happy place was on his knees, sandwiched between Kaon and Vos. The former pressed against his aft, smaller spike in his valve, lacing electricity over his body at a voltage that bordered on some strange exquisite precipice of pleasure and pain. Then Vos, with thighs parted near Helex's lowered helm, the smelter's tongue lapping at the sniper's delicate little valve, while Vos chattered in labored Neocybex.

He always came first, always the most desperate, grinding his valve over Helex's face. Then Kaon, while Helex was still attempting to swallow Vos' transfluid, the surge of electricity threatening to fry the smelter's circuits. He would climax, in adrenaline-spiked pain and ecstasy, Vos and Kaon clutching him at both ends.

It was only rarely that Kaon lost too much control to warrant a quick call to Nickel. The minibot would fuss and chastise, but always erupt into laughter as soon as she was outside the door. For a strict little medic, she still had a certain amount of immaturity when it came to interface injuries. 

But more often than not, Helex recovered quickly. He was a big mech after all. Sturdy. He would gather up Vos and Kaon in his two sets of arms, ignoring the faint smell of burnt wiring. He would hold them contentedly while the trio recharged.

That was Helex's happy place. 


	41. Trailbreaker & Roller (Grindcore)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU-ish, if Trailbreaker had been imprisoned in Grindcore instead of Skids and met Tarn (Roller) for the first time.
> 
> Trails/Roller angsty.

This was bad, Trailbreaker thought as he was prodded along by Decepticon guards. Very, very bad. He had heard rumors of Grindcore. But it was far worse than he imagined. The smell. The sounds. The body parts that lay strewn across the ground. The overwhelming feeling of being trapped.

His hands were locked behind his back in heavy cuffs. The restraints weren’t enough to prevent him creating forcefields, but they limited his coordination. In any case an escape attempt was likely to fail. He was outnumbered, both on the ground and in the air.

There was only option, allowing the guards to shunt him along towards a mech who appears to be some sort of overseer.

“Forcefield guy?” the mech grunted, “Commandant wants to see him.”

Trailbreaker didn’t like the sound of that. But he had no choice as the guards forced him through more depravity on the way to an office, the decor of which was so traditionally bureaucratic it seemed out of touch with the outside surroundings.

The only exotic element was the large mech seated behind an immense desk. His face was hidden beneath a mask in the shape of the Decepticon insignia. It might have looked comical if not for the mech’s overall intimidating size.

Blood red optics peered out at Trailbreaker with a powerful intensity. Trailbreaker bravely held his gaze, determined not to show any fear. After an eternity the mech’s optics broke away, hand carving an elegant gesture, 

“Remove his cuffs,” his voice was strangely familiar though Trailbreaker was certain he had never seen the mech before, nor heard the darkly sweet tones.

The guards seemed to hesitate.

“Are you sure Sir?”

“There’s nowhere he can run,” the Commandant answered.

The guards complied. Trailbreaker was shoved into an empty seat and after a word of dismissal from the Commandant, the guards retreated from the office. The silence in their wake was palpable. Trailbreaker did his best not to squirm as the Commandant’s optics refocused on him.

“Well…” the ‘Con said finally. Trailbreaker wondered if his audial relay was glitching because he swore the mech sounded hesitant.

Still, he tensed as the Commandant rose abruptly in his seat,

“My apologies…” he said and Trailbreaker grew even more perplexed, “This moment has been a long time coming and I… I find myself strangely nervous.”

Trailbreaker gripped the armrests of his seat,

“Look, if you gonna torture me, just get it over with. I’m not telling you anything.”

“Torture you?” the Commandant sounded genuinely taken aback, “You misunderstand. Trailbreaker. Trails… This is a reunion.”

A hand rose to lift the mask, revealing a face Trailbreaker hadn’t seen in megacycles, only in his memories and dreams.

“Roller?”

Roller’s mouth quirked in a smile. Trailbreaker felt very faint.

“How,” his vocalizer managed to splutter, “How did… You’re a ‘Con!”

“Decepticon,” Roller stressed the full word, a look of pride spreading over his features, “Yes.”

Trailbreaker couldn’t summon a response. His processor was a chaotic mess. He stared mutely at the pride of Roller’s face. Eventually it softened into something like pity.

“It’s a lot to take in,” he said, “Would you like something to drink?”

“Yes,” Trailbreaker pleaded without thinking.

Roller opened a drawer to his desk. He pulled out a bottle of expensive looking engex and a glass, pouring Trailbreaker a generous helping.

“Rivets Field,” he said, “1st cycle, 004.”

He slid the glass towards Trailbreaker, who regarded it with slight suspicion.

“You don’t drink Kremzeek anymore?”

“Oh no. I kicked that habit long ago,” Roller chuckled, “My tastes are a little more refined nowadays.”

Trailbreaker’s compulsion overpowered his hesitation. He took a deep draught of the engex.

“Your voice is different,” he murmured.

Roller hummed. Even that carried a darkly sweet pitch. It sent shivers down Trailbreaker’s backstrut.

“I suppose I have improved my elocution.”

“You sound a bit like Megatron,” Trailbreaker voiced the observation before it even properly processed in his helm.

Roller’s EM field rippled with excitement. He leaned forward,

“You know what Megatron sounds like?”

Trailbreaker felt the unwelcome suspicion that Roller was phishing.

“I’ve overheard broadcasts,” he answered vaguely. It wasn’t a complete lie.

A blissful look settled over Roller’s face,

“It’s nothing compared to hearing him in person. Seeing him. He visited recently. He was impressed with my work here.”

Images of what he had seen on the way to Roller’s office played through Trailbreaker’s processor.

“Impressed?” he said, unable to hold back his disgust, “Roller, you’re torturing ‘bots!”

Roller frowned,

“You think that the Autobots don’t do the same to my brothers on Garrus-9? That they aren’t slaughtered by the likes of the Wreckers,” his voice rose passionately, “We have no choice but retaliate. It’s a war Trails. Only through victory can we achieve our goal. Peace through tyranny.”

Trailbreaker flinched at the words, the conviction in Roller’s voice.

“But your friends are Autobots, Roller,” he appealed to him, “Me, ‘Charger, Glitch, Skids. Optimus. Optimus is your oldest friend.”

“Orion Pax _was_ my oldest friend,” Roller corrected bitterly, “And when I went missing, he didn’t come looking.”

Trailbreaker winced at the accusation,

“We did try,” he said softly, “Once we realized you were gone… I tried not to give up. But then the war… People needed our help.”

He couldn’t quite hold back the pleading in his expression. The desire for Roller to not be angry at him.

Roller reached across the desk, large familiar fingers falling on Trailbreaker’s spaulder,

“Hush,” he said, voice gentle, like it was the old Roller talking, “I don’t blame you Trails. And I don’t regret that it was Megatron who found me. It was destiny.”

His grip tightened ever so slightly, coupled with the mixture of reverence and nostalgia in his voice made Trailbreaker squeamish. For the first time since knowing Roller he wanted to push his hand away.

Roller seemed immune to his distress, lost in his own reminiscence,

“Before Megatron, I was nothing but a self-pitying drug addict. He pulled the shade from over my optics. Gave me purpose. A reason to live.”

I thought I was your reason to live, Trailbreaker barely stopped himself from voicing the sad thought. He managed to remain silent by draining the remaining engex.

Roller’s optics refocused on him, filling with a tenderness that shot straight to Trailbreaker’s spark.

“I’ve missed you so much.”

Trailbreaker couldn’t stop the sob that issued from his vocalizer.

“I missed you too.”

Roller’s hand moved to cup his cheek,

“I can’t wait to tell you all I’ve learned. I’ll show you, Trails, I’ll show you the true path. We can walk it together, you and I.”

The words, spoken in such an intimate voice, made Trailbreaker’s energon run cold. He found himself slapping away Roller’s hand.

“Why?” his voice cracked with distress, his whole frame trembled with it, “Why do you have to say that stuff? You’re not my Roller. You’re not…”

His Roller would have never joined the Decepticons. His Roller wouldn’t worship a monster like Megatron. His Roller wouldn’t have killed Autobots. His Roller wouldn’t have invited him to switch sides. This mech before him was a cruel imposter with Roller’s face, his memories.

Roller stared at him with slightly wounded expression, hand hanging in the air between them.

“I _am_ your Roller,” he said, “Merely enlightened, no longer shackled by trivialities and ignorance.”

He reached for him. Trailbreaker lurched backwards, almost tipping his chair to evade the touch.

“Put me in a cell!” he demanded, “I want to be put in a cell!”

Anything to get him out of this situation, away from Roller.

“In a moment,” there was an audible note of distress in his voice, “Trails, I need you to…”

“Now!” Trailbreaker shouted, “I’m a prisoner. Put me in a cell!”

Roller let out a growl,

“I need you to _listen_ ,” at the last word, Trailbreaker felt a pressure bearing on his spark. A frightening, insidious pressure.

“No!” a forcefield erupted around Trailbreaker, throwing Roller backwards into the far wall.

For a moment his optics blazed with anger. Trailbreaker stared back from the sanctity of his forcefield, unable to steady his ragged vents. Roller broke the stalemate by ex-venting. He lifted himself off the floor, hands raised.

“I understand,” he said in a voice that was horribly calm and gentle, “This is a lot to process. I’ll have guards escort you to a cell.”

Trailbreaker answered only with a shaky nod. He refused to lower his forcefield, though it was powerless in protecting his broken spark.


	42. Getaway & Atomizer (Lost Light, Post Issue 50)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning spoilers for Issue 50, which was amazing!
> 
> I know there's probably a lot of hate for Getaway now (well more than previously) but I can't stop writing him.

Helpless. He’s utterly helpless. Mangled. Bereft of hands and pedes. His mouth. His ability to speak. To scream. What little movement he has delivers bursts of excruciating pain to his jailed spark.

But he can see. Oh he can _see_. And that in itself is more punishment than mercy. Because ahead of him, haloed in light in a backdrop of darkness, is Skids. Skids and his sad expression. Skids staring at him with disappointment. _Judgement_.

Words form in his processor. Words he desperately wants to voice. Explanation. Justification. While he’s silently screaming, Skids turns away. He merges into the darkness, deaf to Getaway’s pleas. His spark pulses with pain as his frustration turns physical.

He writhes and _burns_ , all the while screaming Skids’ designation.

He’s still screaming it as he’s shaken out of recharge, drowning out Atomizer’s voice. The other ‘bot holds him until Getaway realizes that he’s in his berth, that he’s whole again, that their plan has come to fruition, that Skids is…

“It’s okay,” Atomizer whispers, even though Getaway has stilled, “You’re safe. We’re safe. It’s over.”

Over. Getaway tries to nod but he can’t shake the image of Skids from his mind.

The stupid glitch. Why hadn’t he answered yes to Getaway’s questions? Why had he forced Getaway to sacrifice him with the others?

“Getaway,” Atomizer’s voice is tinged with panic and Getaway becomes aware he’s trembling.

“S’alright,” he forces out, “Just a bad dream.”

He clings to Atomizer, partly to steady his shaking. But mostly it’s for the want to be held, to feel embraced, not condemned.

He did what was necessary. No one ever said doing the right thing ever came without a price.

Skids is his price. His stupid, noble Skids.

“Wanna talk about it?” Atomizer asks.

“No,” Getaway answers quickly, “Like you said, it’s over. No use dwelling on the past.”

How easy he can speak the words. Believing them is a much different story. At least for him. Atomizer seems content, his fingers tracing patterns on his helm.

“I think I’ll start redecorating tomorrow.”

“Mmm,” Getaway answers. But his processor is a million miles away, the memory of Skids’ condemnation chilling his spark.


	43. Galvatron & Shockwave (Past, Pre Ark-1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to write some past Galvatron and young Shockwave. Set prior to Jhiaxus unleashing his Combiner experiment then departing on the Ark.
> 
> Galvatron is hard to write :(

"Take these to Galvatron," Jhiaxus tell Shockwave one cycle, unexpectedly shoving a stack of datapads in his hands.  
  
"What are they?" Shockwave can't help questioning.

"Summaries of my research," Jhiaxus tells him offhandedly, "Tell him they are a gift of good will and transparency."

Shockwave is puzzled. Galvatron is a barbarian, a warrior, slayer of Nexus Prime and his Headmasters.

"I was unaware Galvatron was interested in scientific research," he says as Jhiaxus turns his back.

"He's interested in mine," his teacher mutters, "Go, Shockwave, I have much to do."

Shockwave complies, not without some resentment. He's no messenger. And this detour interrupts his own experiments. But Jhiaxus is his teacher and obviously he views the task as too important to entrust to anyone but Shockwave. He faces down Galvatron's dour faced guard to be led to the infamous mech himself. He sits on a settee, leaning on his axe as Shockwave repeats Jhiaxus' message. When he finishes, Galvatron sneers.  
  
"Does your master really expect me to accept this false offering?"

Shockwave is taken aback.

"What reason would he have to deceive to you?"

Galvatron gives him a disdainful look,

"Your master is aware I don't approve of his scientific perversions."

"My mentor only strives to scientific betterment of Cybertron," Shockwave comes to Jhiaxus' defense, "Advancement through understanding."

"What a pretty parrot you are," Galvatron says mockingly, "It's almost as if Jhiaxis is controlling your vocalizer."

"With all due respect," Shockwave fights to hold back his temper, "It is what I believe."

"Then you are a fool," Galvatron says, "If you think Jhiaxus incapable of harm."

His fingers grip the knob of his axe,

"But Galvatron is no fool," he continues, "I know these datapads contain nothing but pretty lies. Jhiaxus believes I seek a reason to have him barred from the Ark mission. But in reality, I have no objection to his inclusion. On the Ark, there is nowhere he can hide from me."

"Is that a threat?" Shockwave found himself asking.

"It is truth, student of Jhiaxus," Galvatron answers, "Report to your master what you will. I care not."

Shockwave forces a polite bow,

"I will tell him you weren't satisfied with his offering."

"I have not dismissed you," Galvatron's voice halts Shockwave's exit.

He turns back, temper once again flaring,

"With all due respect, honorable Galvatron, I am not yours to command."

For the first time since the encounter Galvatron smiles. Or rather, smirks.

"Such fire," he muses, "What did you say your designation was? Shock-wave?"

Shockwave nods, trying to muster back some geniality. After all Galvatron isn't a mech to be trifled with.

"Such a war-like name for such a delicate frame," the barbarian says, "But then, you aren't as delicate as you appear. Are you?"

He leers at him a moment before rising to his full height. Shockwave tries not to flinch as the powerful mech closes the gap between them, one large hand encircling his chin, tilting his helm for appraisal,

"One has to wonder, beneath all that polish and paint, how alike you are to your master. If it is truly wise to depart from Cybertron and leave you… unattended.”

Shockwave dared to meet Galvatron’s optics,

“Cybertron has nothing to fear from me.”

Galvatron’s scarlet optics study him intently,

“So you claim,” he murmurs, “But do you swear before Galvatron? Think before you speak. It would be unwise to swear to me with false intent.”

“I swear it,” Shockwave obliges with a fierceness that surprises even himself.

A guttural hum growls from Galvatron’s vocalizer.

“Galvatron never forgets,” he tells Shockwave, “Defy me and I’ll snuff out that lovely spark of yours.”

It’s by no means an empty threat. There’s a slightly crazed promise in Galvatron’s optics. Shockwave nods in understanding.

“Am I free to leave Lord Galvatron?” he does his best to speak in non-argumentative monotone.

Galvatron’s answering smile is chilling. Nonetheless his fingers release Shockwave.

“By all means pretty one,” he says with sardonic magnanimity, “Return to your master.”

He returns to his lofty position on the settee. Shockwave makes a hasty exit, only to regret his own cowardice, how easily he allowed himself to be intimidated. He promises himself never again.

He’s also decided he detests purple.


	44. Kroma & Proteus (Prewar)

Proteus, Kroma thinks, is a dirty, dirty mech.

Not politically-dirty, though he is. But just plain dirty. That’s why he likes to sit in the shadows watching Kroma work himself onto a massive false spike. Proteus calls it a reward, but Kroma knows there’s other ways to reward a lackey without sitting in on the show. Kroma wonders if it’s his coarse accent or the fact there’s some poor schmuck’s energon still staining his fists. Whatever it is, after a while, it makes him cocky.   
  
"Maybe one cycle you'll frag me yourself,” he calls out to him.

Proteus sneers, contempt scorching Kroma from across the room as he continues to slam himself down on the false spike, charge rippling over his frame. Close, so close, Proteus’ optics are so bright in dark, almost feral and his elegant voice is guttural.

"I don't sully my hands with _filth_ ," the last word hisses through his dentae and Kroma overloads hard, transfluid spurting in the direction of the Senator. It misses the toe of his pedes by mere inches.

Proteus stares at it in disgust before rising from his seat, side stepping the mess on his way to the door,

"That's what I pay you for,” his parting words, calmer but no less vicious. Kroma watches the door close behind him, still fully impaled on the false spike, transfluid dribbling from the tip of his own and wonders, bemusedly, if this is what love is supposed to feel like.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my headcanon Kroma crushed on his boss before he met Macabre and recruited him.


	45. Roboid AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beginning of an AU I started on, where Ravage goes undercover to rescue more Roboids.

_The Planet Cess_...

"Where did you say you were from?" the Blortian trader asked.

"Earth," the elder of the organics answered.

"Never heard of it. Not in this quadrant?"

"No."

The Blortian's gaze travelled to the beast frame on a leash.

"And you came all this way to trade-in a Roboid?"

"We heard you could give us the best price."

The Blortian wriggled his tentacles,

"That depends on the merchandise. May I?"

"By all means."

The Blortian moved close to inspect the Roboid.

"I haven't seen this model before..."

The Roboid was feline with a sleek black frame.

"The dealer said it was rare."

"Sometimes code for knock-off," the Blortian said shrewdly, "Do you have the certificate of authenticity? Warranty papers?"

"They were... misplaced. Along with the packaging."

The Blortian rubbed his tentacles over his face,

"That will lower the price I'm afraid."

"I had anticipated as much," the Roboid's owner answered.

The Blortian resumed his inspection, tentacles probing over the Roboid's frame. It was in rare condition. Most second-hand Roboids came to him in a state of disrepair. This one could almost pass as new.

"Any reason you're so willing to sell?"

The greying Earthian frowned,

"I would prefer not to discuss my financial circumstances."

The trader raised his tentacles in a disarming gesture,

"Of course. I didn't intend to pry."

The Earthian had unwittingly implied enough for the Blortian to take advantage.

He indicated his companion, smaller and more shapely, who was browsing the Blortian's other wares with a serious expression.

"My daughter and I are on a busy schedule. If you would name your price."

The Blortian happily obliged,

"Well there is a market for feline Roboids," he said before rippling his tentacles in a sigh, "Though like I said, without the authentication or warranty documents, you're looking at a considerably lower resell value. The best offer I can make is 1,000 credits, I assure you that's being quite generous."

The Earthian's red gaze travelled downwards to the Roboid.

"I think that's reasonable," he said, after a moment.

The Blortian resisted the urge to rub his tentacles gleefully,

"Good choice Sir. Good choice. You're happy with a cash transaction?"

"That would be suitable."

"We will require a receipt," the younger Earthian turned from her browsing.

"Of course," the Blortian said, "But I must point out that all transactions are non-refundable."

The pair nodded. The Blortian reached for the Roboid's leash.

"I'll take it out back."

The Earthian jerked the leash out of his reach.

"Credits and receipt first."

The Blortian struggled to mask his annoyance.

"Of course. Of course."

He fetched the credits from his personal safe, drew up a receipt. With fake details, one could never be too careful.  

"There you go," he offered both to the elder Earthian.

He actually seemed reluctant to relinquish the leash. Second thoughts perhaps? But in the end, he allowed the Blortian to take the Roboid into his possession.

His gaze strayed to the female hovering by the jewelry case. She seemed to be drawn to one necklace in particular.

"Those are genuine robot fingers from Pion," the Blortian seized the opportunity for another sale, "Would you like to try it on?"

"No thank you," the female answered stiffly, "We should depart... Father."

The elder Earthian didn't answer. The female moved to link one arm through his and pulled him towards the exit.

"Chumps," the Blortian chuckled, once they had disappeared from sight.

He tugged cruelly on the Roboid's leash,

"Let's go brute. I'll put you with the others," his tentacles writhed with glee, "You're going to make me quite a bit of money."

~

"What a ghastly individual," Magnus said as they made their way to their M.A.R.B., "I suspect he's dealing Cybertronian arms as well. If I was still a Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord, I could process a warrant to search his premises. The receipt alone is proof he's dealing in species trafficking."

"What good will arresting him do?" Megatron growled, "If you ask me, he deserves far more lethal punishment."

Magnus frowned with Verity's lips,

"Killing organics isn’t going to decrease their hatred of us," he said softly.

"So it’s alright for them to experiment on us?" Megatron whirled on him, "Place us in beast frames to be tortured for amusement?"

"I'm not condoning it," Magnus said, "All I'm saying is that someone has to take the high road."

Megatron looked away in disgust,

"Tell that to all the Roboids being tormented by their so-called owners. The poor bots who have had their _remains_ turned into gaudy jewelry."

He ex-vented deeply,

"I don't like leaving him there. I know he volunteered and he's capable but..."

"I know," he felt Verity's slender fingers on his arm, "I was reluctant for Ravage to undertake this mission as well. But like you said, he is capable."

Megatron clenched his fists,

"And determined. This whole plan was his idea. As soon as he overheard Fort Max's report on the Roboids, he was demanding to go uncover. Primus, he even accepted being on a leash to play the part. A _leash_."

"It may have been his idea but you and Rodimus agreed," Magnus said, "This is an opportunity to shut down this operation from the inside. Rescue countless Roboids. If Ravage asks for assistance, we're on standby to extract him. Until then, we have to trust him to carry out the mission alone."

Megatron grimaced,

"You're right. It's just... It's hard not to feel like I'm abandoning him. If anything happens..."

He couldn't afford to lose Ravage. Not to a mech-torturing syndicate. Not to anyone.

"I understand," Magnus said, "He's one of us. I don't want him harmed any more than you do."

Megatron nodded distractedly. The words were a small comfort, knowing he wasn’t the only one concerned for the symbiont. But they weren't enough to ease his processor. Not until the mission was a success, and Ravage was safe aboard the _Lost Light_. 

"We should check in with Rodimus," Magnus prompted gently.

"Agreed."

It was all they could do at this point. Megatron spared a glance back at the trader's shop.

Look after yourself, Ravage.


	46. Whirl & Rung (Shattered Glass)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> My take on SG Whirl and Rung, based in the same SG AU in the Ultra Magnus drabbles.
> 
> Basically Whirl never stood up to the Senate and was never Empurata'd. 
> 
> Rung was, being reduced to a scary drone programmed to conclude his psychological evaluations with a treatment of Shadowplay.

Whirl tried not to stare too pointedly at the Empurata'd helm of the mech who had walked into his laboratory.

"What can I do for you?"

"My chronometer…" Rung stated in his impassive monotone, "Is malfunctioning."

He held out the object, balanced between two clawed hands. Whirl tried not to grimace as he took possession of the chronometer, avoiding contact with the mech's claws.

"I'll take a look," he said, knowing better than to refuse. He knew Rung by reputation, knew what risks he ran by objecting.

Whirl did not take risks. That was the reason he hadn't wound up looking like Rung's doppelganger. When the Senate had come calling, he had accepted. When Optimus had taken charge, he had done the same. Whirl was good with his hands. But the Senators and the deranged Prime hadn't been interested in watches. They had been interested in weapons.

And Whirl had obliged. Out of fear. Out of the knowledge he could have ended up maimed. Reprogrammed. Better to live with guilt than to live out of the rest of his existence as a deformed drone. He could still make watches, though up until recently he'd had little time for his hobby due to Optimus' demands.

But Optimus had been deposed and the new Prime seemed to have less interest in weaponry. In fact Whirl had scarcely been called upon since his coronation. He almost felt forgotten. Nobody dropped by the laboratory except for Perceptor.

Until now that was.

"How did you know I fix watches?" he asked Rung suspiciously.

It wasn't a well-known fact, even among his fellow scientists and engineers. Whirl was private about his past.

"It's recorded on your file," Rung answered.

Whirl's sense of unease increased tenfold.

"You have access to my file?"

Rung's single optic studied him with an unsettling intensity.

"I have access to everyone's file."

Whirl did his best to swallow his fear. So what if Rung had his file. He wasn't as though he had come with motive of assigning him to Shadowplay. He wanted his chronometer fixed. The watchmaker forced a smile.

"I see," he said, "Give me some time, I'll have this baby fixed good as new."

"Thank you," Rung stated robotically.

Whirl waited until he had departed to allow himself to properly shudder. Then he examined the chronometer in his hands. It was an antique, Rung had presumably owned it for a long time, prior to his reprogramming. From its condition it had obviously been well looked after. Loved even. Back when Rung had the capacity to love.

A fresh shudder rippled down Whirl’s backstrut as he carried the chronometer over to his toolkit.


	47. Riptide (Post Issue 50)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because I am still shipping Lotty/Riptide damn it, even after issue 50, so here are some feels :(

Riptide slipped away during Getaway's broadcast. There wasn't much point in sticking around and truthfully the situation made him uncomfortable. Yes he had sided with Getaway and yes he had felt the _Lost Light_ was better off without Megatron and Rodimus in command. But that didn't mean he didn't feel guilty, especially at this moment when Getaway exposed the extent of the crew's mutiny.

No, not mutiny. Re-positioning of leadership. That's the term Atomizer had used. Mutiny implied the crew had acted out of self-interest instead of survival. Megatron had flunked Riptide on his paper but he hadn't opted to exile him from the ship out of spite. It was the fact he was a former mass murderer with a tenuous mental state. Riptide had watched him hit Minimus. He didn't want a mech like that on board, let alone in command. Not around Riptide or the 'bots he cared about.  
  
Not around Velocity. She hadn't been present at Getaway's broadcast. Riptide assumed she hadn't felt comfortable enough to attend. Not that they had ever discussed the plan. Getaway and Atomizer had been adamant no one utter a word until everything came to fruition. On one hand Riptide had found it difficult, not being to talk about it, to Lotty in particular. But it was nice, when they were together, to focus on more pleasant subjects.

He and Lotty had made plans earlier for Riptide to swing by the medibay and head to Swerve's (if that was still the bar's name now Swerve was gone, maybe it would renamed Bluestreak's). Riptide wondered if Lotty would still feel up for socializing. If not they could always hang in his hab suite. Actually Riptide thought that sounded more appealing. He decided to suggest that instead as he reached the medibay door.

"Hey Lotty..." he called as he entered, only to pause abruptly.

The medbay was conspicuously empty.

"Lotty?"

No answer. Riptide did a quick sweep under the desks and cupboards just to be thorough. No Lotty. Riptide scratched his helm in bewilderment, optics falling on the datapad on Lotty's desk, screen glowing.

He moved closer to read the contents,

_Hey Rip, sorry this is short notice but I've gone with Rod. and co. on mission. Thought they might need a medic. Will catch you up at Swerve's later. Lotty :)_

The message was still pending. Lotty, in her haste, must have missed pressing send.

The implication of the message came crashing over Riptide like a tidal wave. The image of Lotty on the Necrobot's planet surging through his processor. Lotty, betrayed and abandoned and afraid.

"No," he stammered, "No, no, no, no!"

What had he done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> GAH THE FEELS D':


	48. Kroma & Macabre (Prewar)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some backstory Macabre/Kroma. For Insec, who inspired me to write more of the horn-interfacers :3

Kroma isn't much for philosophizing. But the cycle he met Macabre felt like fate. Fate that the newcomer to Iacon happened to turn down the exact alleyway Kroma was beating the energon out of a hapless victim. Kroma remembers looking up and seeing his face with all it's exotic points. He remembers grinning, fists bloody, victim groaning in the background.  
  
"Don't be a hero, pal."

Kroma had expected argument or fear. But Macabre's expression was mostly peeved, as though annoyed at having walked into this situation.

"I have no quarrel with you," he answered. In that peculiar voice that denoted him as a foreigner, so different from Kroma's Dead End drawl. He was so intrigued he forgot the mech he was supposed to be beating on.

"Interestin' accent. Where you from, Tarn?"

Macabre looked affronted.

"Textrahex," his gaze turned resentful, as though he blamed Kroma for provoking an answer, "If you must know."

Kroma felt the need to rise to his full height, victim still cowering beneath him. They were about the same size, give or take Macabre's horns. Kroma remembers wanting to touch them even then. He had never seen a mech with that sort of kibble. 

"And what's a Tetrahexian doin' in an alleyway so far from home?"

"My business is my own," Macabre answered haughtily.

Cycles later, Macabre admitted that his reason for coming to Iacon was a pilgrimage to his mentor's memorial. As for his stumbling into Kroma's path, well, he had gotten lost, which Kroma, naturally, found hilarious.

But back then, Macabre's dismissive answer had left Kroma itching to start a brawl. And likely would have if not for his victim stupidly making a run for it.

"Your...  friend is escaping," Macabre said in a dry tone.

"Not for long," Kroma replied breezily.

He tossed a glance over his spaulder as he swaggers off in pursuit.

"See you 'round Horns."

It wasn't an arbitrary statement. Kroma searched the streets until he encountered the strange, surly mech again.

What could he say, he was a horn-y mech.


	49. Pipes & Drift (SG)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by my chats with Insec regarding what SG Pipes might be like. In the end we decided he was an acrotomophile with a particular fascination for Empurata'd mecha.
> 
> Same SG AU as featured in the Ultra Magnus Drabbles. Ratchet basically turned Drift into a Empurata creation, Drift is still addicted to syk, both were exiled to Delphi when Rodimus took power, which is where Pipes comes in.
> 
> Warning: Dark, drug use/addiction, possible dubcon due to the prior, references to Empurata and acrotomophilia.

"So beautiful," Pipes cooes at Drift.

Normally he wouldn't venture to touch him. Drift usually responds with aggression. But his daily dose of syk makes him complacent. When Pipes presses a servo over the flat surface of Drift's helm, Drift actually nudges forward, single optic glazed. Pipes' spark pulses with excitement.

"Oh yes," his voice quivers, "So beautiful."

He strokes his helm for a moment, assuring himself of Drift's complacency, before his fingers dip to the stumps of Drift's forearms, skirting carefully around the blades in place of the mech's hands. The effect is exotic, a blend of the old limb and the addition of something dangerous, no attempt to soften the coarse serration caused by Ratchet's saw.

Pipes is enrapt, though he doesn't fail to miss the sudden rigidness in Drift's curved backstrut. Drift's not used to being touched in this way. He's avoided by all the Delphi staff save Pipes and his master. Even in the midst of his drug fugue, his initial reaction is distrustful. His barbed tail gives a flick. A warning. Pipes fights back the instinct of self preservation. He's come too far to retreat,

"Shh," he murmurs, "It's okay."

He rubs small circles over the stumps with his thumbs, relieved when Drift's tail slows it's swing. Pipes doubts it's wholly his reassurances soothing Drift, more so the syk making him too sluggish to attack. So sluggish his helm comes to rest against Pipes' shoulder wheel. Pipes is ecstatic, though he's careful not to broaden his touch too much, sticking to the same circular motion over the coarse metal, imagining the moment of Ratchet's saw slicing through plating and cabling to create the unique vision before his optics.

Drift, as a whole, really is a masterpiece. There's loveliness to be found in Empurata, at least Pipes has always thought. The amputation of helm and limbs to create an new entity, erotic in it's featurelessness, the stark blatantness of it's deformity. Despite the isolation of Delphi, Pipes had managed to acquire images of Empurata'd mecha courtesy of Hubcap. His friend in communications had unwittingly sent them for shock value, oblivious to the true feelings they stirred.

Pleasuring himself to such images had sustained him through his tedious post at Delphi. His favorites being those of an orange 'bot, formerly an outspoken therapist. Then Drift had arrived. His once beloved collection of images paled in comparison to seeing Drift scuttle down the gangway of the transport shuttle at Ratchet's heels.

Pipes fell in love instantly.

He was simply exquisite.

A perfection only Pipes seems to see - aside from Ratchet, the genius, the _artist_ that he is, who crafted Drift according to the grand vision in his processor. Others see Drift as a thing to be feared, reviled, at best pitied. They are ignorant, clinging to old concepts of beauty, sharing none of Pipes' enlightenment. He alone is worthy of Drift's affection. Only he sees him for the marvel he truly is.

His strokes become possessive. How he wishes he had a mouth beneath his faceplate, so he could lick Drift's stumps, drag his tongue over the misshapen metal. He wants to open his heated panel and expose his valve, in the hopes Drift will deign to mount him, bladed arms hooked around him. As Pipes is debating whether to test the waters, slide open his array, see what Drift might make of his slickened valve - he knows Drift is capable of lust, on more than one more occasion he has seen him rutting against Ratchet's leg, much to the doctor's amusement - he hears a familiar chuckle.

Speak of Mortilus. Pipes turns to see Ratchet and full extent of his deceptively benign smile.

"Hope I'm not interrupting."

Drift's helm quirks at the sound of his voice. Pipes feels a flicker of jealousy at how quickly Drift scrambles over him to press to Ratchet's side. But he knows better than to employ anything other than a courteous tone towards his boss.

"Of course not Sir," he says, "We were just, uh..."

"Don't apologize," Ratchet breezes, one servo absentmindedly on Drift's helm, "It's so rare I find someone who genuinely admires my work."

"Oh I do," Pipes gushes, "Very much."

Ratchet's smile broadens,

"I have a surgery scheduled. I thought you might want to sit in."

Pipes can scarcely contain his excitement. The opportunity to see amputation first hand, see a 'bot transformed under saw and scalpel.

"Yes. Please Sir. It would be an honor."

"Yes I thought it might," Ratchet hums, pleased, hand petting Drift a final time before turning, "Come along dear Pipes."

Pipes follows eagerly.


	50. Overlord, Proteus & Trepan (War, AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some disturbing AU I came up with where Overlord takes Proteus as a plaything. 
> 
> Warnings: Mnemosurgery, mentions of torture/rape.

The beast's in his memories again. One of the numerous times Proteus straddled Sentinel in the privacy of his mansion, the brute's voice in his audial, taunting whispers above Sentinel's groans and Proteus' own cries.

"That's why you were so stretched out by the time I got to you, pet. You're spoiled goods."

Then he drags his needles out of Proteus' brain module and the room bleeds into Proteus' bleak new reality, splayed in the beast's enormous lap, feverish gaze meeting his.

How the beast smiles, with such deceptive warmth and lovely sculpted lips, a politician's smile. He may have been useful once, had Proteus been made aware of him. Perhaps he may have survived longer than Sentinel.

But right now all Proteus wishes is for him to die. His so-called master, his twisted savior who dragged him from execution, from a Seeker's null-ray aimed directly at his helm.

"Not this one Screamer. He looks fun to play with."

And play with him he had, in the most obscene ways. Had Proteus not been the victim, he might have admired the beast's skill at debauchery. Once he paraded Proteus on all fours on a leash while his comrades all looked on and laughed.

But this humiliation was rather tame compared to the daily tortures and rapes. Proteus became accustomed to always tasting his own dried energon in his mouth. Meanwhile his once pristine form was littered with dents and scars delivered with almost surgical precision.

It was only his helm the beast left untouched. He was even prone to polishing Proteus' chevron, though it was no act of kindness.

"I want something pretty to look at while you're gagging on my spike, pet."

To Proteus it was a small comfort, being able to cling to the last vestige of his beauty. He knew the beast could disfigure his face if the will took him. Vanity as much as the urge to survive drove him to please his master in any way possible. He wasn't a stranger to degrading himself. He had done much the same to ingrain himself with Nominus.

But the beast was far more wily than the old Prime.

And far more ambitious by far.

Proteus wasn't exactly surprised at the beast's abduction of Trepan from the Institute. Learning mnemosurgery seemed a logical step in his monstrous evolution.

And Proteus presented an ideal practice dummy. His mind was a catalog of crimes the beast seemed to revel in. At first Proteus rejoiced in old memories, reliving past moments of opulence, of power, the beast watching on, an omnipresent but harmless voyeur.

But the beast dug deeper, locating Proteus' more distasteful memories, to servicing Nominus on his knees, choking on transfluid, to his catastrophic fall from power, watching his empire crumble around him.

Even the beast's own tortures he made Proteus relive, over and over, watching them with a methodical optic, as if seeking to improve.

He's in Proteus' helm so frequently - despite Trepan's warnings, the senator's reality becomes a chaotic jumble of memories new and old, struggling to sort them into a chronological order.

But in all them there's the beast, smiling with those loathsome lips.

Smiling like he is now, with Proteus quivering on his lap.

"Enough," Trepan is saying, "I keep telling you, you'll fry his processor - and yours along with it."

He shoots Proteus a look of distaste, impatient for the beast to shove him aside so he can clamber onto his lap.

But the beast isn't wont to take orders.

"Once more," he grins at the irate Trepan, and Proteus feels the familiar puncture of needles...


	51. Fortress Maximus & Jetfire (AU-ish)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written as a sequel to 'Big'. AU-ish where Jetfire comes to work at Luna 1. Jetfire/Max, maybe hints of Red/Max and Rung/Max.
> 
> Basically a lot of Angsty-Max :(

Fort Max supposes it's only natural for Jetfire to be assigned to Luna 1 as science director. There's much about the moon for study. So when he receives notification from Cybertron, he doesn't put a hand to resist. But he spends many restless cycles pacing, anxious to face the mech from his past, the one who knew him before the dark times, before the _change_.

He almost backs out of meeting Jetfire when he docks, knowing that Red Alert will readily take his place. The security director was going to accompany him anyway. But Fort Max pushes through the panic. He is the commander of Luna 1 and must act accordingly. He cannot shut himself away in his office, neglect his duties out of fear.

But he _is_ afraid when he lays optics on Jetfire - tall and serene, towering over his team of smaller scientists. Max's memory prior to the _change_ is foggy. Events he can remember but with sketchy narrative, images of people, even the image of himself distorted and blurred.

He can't recall with any clarity what he was like before the _change_. He was the warden of Garrus-9, that's _what_ he was. _Who_ he was, beyond the title, the duties he performed, that's harder, even impossible to discern, sorting fact from fantasy.

But as Jetfire moves to greet him, the blurred figure from his past sharpens in his mind's eye and Max knows, even though his memory is unreliable, that Jetfire remains the same as was when he was stationed on Garrus-9.

Unchanged.

The realization is cruel. After all Max has been through.

_Count to ten Max_ , Rung's voice speaks calmly in his processor.

Max does. It stops him from hyperventilating on the spot. But still, it takes gargantuan effort to force his vocaliser into greeting Jetfire.

"Welcome," is all he can manage. It's rough, not exactly friendly but at least it's not silence.

Jetfire dips his helm respectfully. He was always polite, wasn't he? Max pushes through the murk of his memory for confirmation.  

"Thank you Sir."

Sir. So formal. Not Fort Max. Or Max. Even Fortress Maximus. A fragment of memory reminds Max that Jetfire used to call him Warden.

But he's not a warden any longer. 

He's Commander of Luna 1. The Duly Appointed Enforcer of the Tyrest Accord.

He's in control.

_One, two, three, four..._

"Red Alert will give you a tour of our facilities," he says stiffly, indicating his second.

"Of course," Jetfire answers politely.

Perhaps too politely. Perhaps it's all a mask. Perhaps he's repulsed by seeing Max again. The new Max, the one who was pieced together after being dissected, tortured, the Max who went on a rampage, almost killed his therapist.

The Max who seemed to be recovering until the past came back into his life.

_Five, six, seven..._

In control. He's in control.

"Red Alert, after you're finished, please escort Jetfire to my office for a briefing."

The words fall from his vocaliser, impressively professional. But in reality he is far from comfortable, not at the idea of being alone with Jetfire.

He paces in his office, counting, waiting - _agonizing -_ over the moment when Red Alert delivers Jetfire to him.

He takes his seat at their arrival, fingers digging fiercely into the armrests.

"Thank you Red Alert,” once again he manages professionalism, “That will be all."

Red Alert hesitates. He has become adept at reading the signals in his field. Max gives him a nod of reassurance, reassurance he hardly feels but manages to feign. Red Alert takes his leave, the sound of his pedes in the hallway fading into painfully obvious silence. Max drums his fingers on his chair, vocalizer finding it hard even to form niceties. It is Jetfire who finally speaks.

"May I sit?"

Max cringes at his inability to offer up this instruction in the first place. He nods, vocalizer still faulty.

Jetfire takes a seat in the empty chair on the other side of Max’s desk. It’s a tad too small for him, unlike Max’s chair, more suitable for the likes of Red Alert. He squirms a little, in what seems like discomfort before he stills and says,

"I... I hope my presence isn't in any way burdensome to you. I know we share something of a history..."

“Yes,” Max gasps out, vocalizer finally working and he rushes to take advantage of the fact, “We do. I think – I think we should… talk.”

“Talk?” Jetfire repeats, voice gentle and inquisitive, lacking any opposition. Even so, Max struggles to elaborate, to _confess_.

"Everything is so... foggy. I can never make up my mind...” he grimaces at his lack of eloquence, the struggle in his own voice.

"About what?" Jetfire presses, tone still gentle.

Gentle giant, that’s what Jetfire is. Was back then. Gentle in speech and actions. Max remembers soft touches, soft words in the privacy of his quarters. Remembers a tenderness he fears might be a trick of his imagination, a distortion of the truth to help him cope. 

"I didn't force you did I?" he utters, "I never abused my position, manipulated you? I think… that I didn't but it could be my mind playing tricks on me."

Jetfire’s concerned expression warps into one of alarm. He squeezes out of his too-small seat and reaches across the desk, for Max’s hand,

"Oh Maximus, no, never. It was consensual. I wanted it,” he squeezes his hand over Max’s, "I wanted you."

Max stares at Jetfire’s digits, similar in proportion to his own, familiar in their careful pressure. He feels relief and sadness all at once.

"I'm not the same,” he says, “I'll never be the same. I don't even know how..."

Jetfire’s hand grips him more firmly,

"You don't have to be the same,” he meets Max’s sorrowful gaze, “I never expected you to be. That doesn’t make you any less in my optics.”

Max is floored by the generosity, the lack of judgement. Even now a part of him rails against it – the part of him that tells him he’s undeserving. The voice that rings faintly of Overlord. The voice he tries to block out.

It’s easier with Jetfire smiling across at him.

“It’s good to see you again…” the scientist continues, “Sir.”

The addition seems more to put Max at ease, a gesture of warmth rather than professionalism. Max tries to reciprocate in kind.

“Max,” he offers, “You can call me… Max, if you would like.”

“Max,” Jetfire complies and Max dares to read his tone as affectionate.

_"Small steps,"_ Rung’s voice echoes in his helm and Max allows himself a small smile.

“It’s good to see you too Jetfire,” Max tells him sincerely.


	52. Whirl & Perceptor (Shattered Glass AU)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Insec, based on our talks that SG Percy fanmechs over Swerve the heroic sniper bot and keeps a pic on him on his desk. And that it would annoy Whirl. A lot. Because SG Whirl is a tightly-wound priss (who his regular self would smack if he ever crossed dimensions). 
> 
> SG Percy's a dummy in my mind. Not intellectually but personality-wise he's a happy goofball. Life's too short to be serious when you've somehow miraculously survived a war (while being an incredibly pathetic shot) and get to spend your days in the lab... Boning Whirl on occasion :)

Whirl didn't mind his and Perceptor's trysts, with Perceptor bent over their shared workbench. It was more economical than leaving the lab in search of a berth. Plus it lent a certain amount of thrill, fragging under that taskmaster, Quark's nose (well non-nose) without being discovered. 

The problem was Perceptors choice of desk decoration. His prized possession. The signed photo of the Heroic Sniper that always seemed positioned in Whirl's line of vision as he thrust into Perceptor. It was distracting, the minibot's not-quite comfortable smile, staring out - watching - him.

Worse was Whirl's sneaking suspicion that Perceptor deliberately angled himself to look at it during interface. Whirl didn't like being a third wheel to the fellow scientist's fantasies, especially when he was doing all the work. He had reached over Perceptor once and tried to knock the photo over. It had brought their fragging to an abrupt hold, Perceptor wriggling off his spike to correct the upturned frame.

"Careful! Do you know how valuable that is?"

Whirl had some estimation. Swerve was notoriously camera shy. A photo of him actually posing, inscribed with his signature is a rarity. If Perceptor was ever willing to part with it, no doubt it was fetch a high price from others in the Heroic Sniper's fanbase. But value was beside the point. Perceptor didn't obsess over the photo because of its value.

"It’s distracting," Whirl grumbled in response, "Turn it around so I don't have to look at it."

Perceptor blinked a moment before his mouth broke into a grin,

"Does it really bother you so much?" He drew the photograph to his chest, much to Whirl's annoyance, "You're not jealous are you?"

"Concerned over your fixation more like," Whirl retorted, "You barely know the mech."

Perceptor's mouth formed a small 'o' that in any other circumstance Whirl might have found adorable.

"I served with him in the Wreckers," he protested, "He even..."

"Saved your life, yeah I know," Whirl had heard the story enough times, "But it's not like you hang out with him now or anything."

"No one does," Perceptor said with something of a self-defensive huff, "Swerve is a very private person."

Whirl rolled his optics. The familiarity Perceptor used when talking about Swerve. Perceptor squinted his optics in response.

"Admit you’re jealous."

Whirl jutted his chin haughtily,

"The only thing I'm admitting is discomfort at standing with my spike out while you throw around inane accusations. We could have overloaded by now if not for your stupid picture."

Perceptor's mouth opened slightly, gaze dipping down to Whirl's spike, before he inexplicably burst into laughter.

"Hee hee your poor spike."

He descended into more giggles. 

"Oh so my suffering's funny is it," Whirl demanded, prompting more giggles, “I honestly don’t know why I bother with you.”

“’Cause I’m pretty,” Perceptor beamed, to which Whirl huffed.

Still he allowed Perceptor to snake his arms around his neck,

“’Cause you like fragging me all over the lab.”

He ground his frame forward. Whirl’s spike twitched with fresh arousal. 

“’Cause you’re a horny Whirlybird.”

“Don’t be crass,” Whirl groaned as Perceptor licked a stripe over a neck cable, “’Cep…”

Fingers trailed from Whirl’s neck to wrap around the head of his spike.

“Yes Whirly?” 

“The photo,” Whirl’s voice took on a pleading edge as Perceptor gave his spike a languid pump.

Perceptor sighed, releasing his spike.

"If it bothers you so much."

He reached to turn the photoframe over. Far too carefully for Whirl’s liking, but he still savored it as a victory, unable to keep the smile off his face as Perceptor turned his attention back to him. 

“Better?” he asked, giving his superior a teasing squint. 

“Better,” Whirl ignored the jibe and spread his thighs even wider in invitation. 

Perceptor’s servo slid accommodatingly around his spike. 

Yes, infinitely better.


	53. More Red Alert & Fort Max

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I needed more of these two :'3

Everything had been going so well until Max broke the kiss. During their encounters Red found he could - almost - relax. Relax in the sense of his paranoia, he still fretted about his performance. He was very new when it came to intimacy, though he hadn't done anything Max didn't seem to like. And Max wasn't one who was overly confident with physical contact either. So it had suited them both to go slow, and Red found comfort in the prolonged foreplay of kisses and gentle caresses. 

But when Max drew back and uttered one syllable, "Red", his newfound sense of ease was shattered and his panic spiked.

It wasn't that Max called him "Red". He was used to the nickname by now, knew it as affectionate. But the way Max said it now, with a distinct hesitance, a wavering in his tone, the troubled look on his face, as if he was building himself to say something unpleasant. All at once a wave of devastating possibilities sprung to Red's processor.

"I think we should end this..."

"It's not working for me anymore..."

"I think it's better we're just friends."

"I've had enough of your paranoia."

Was it true? Red thought. Max had proven more understanding, perhaps too understanding, of Red's habits. But all mecha had their limits. Red had yet to meet a mech beside Rung who could tolerate his personality for so many solar cycles. Perhaps Max had finally lost his patience. 

But there had been no signs. Max hadn't shown any aggression towards Red, no loss in temper, no sharp tone, no utterance of discontent. No effort to avoid him, or distance himself from Red's company, both on and off-duty. 

Max, who looked in the midst of self-conflict himself, suddenly noticed the distress in Red's field.

"Red, are you alright?"

His hand left Red's thigh to touch his spaulder in concern. Red tried to ignore it.

"You're ending it aren't you," he stated mournfully, "I mean, I didn't see the signs. I don't why. Maybe I'm off my game or I've been distracted. Is it because I'm so distracted? I know I'm a certain type of mech but I never thought that bothered you..."

"Red," Max looked alarmed, "Red, what are you talking about? I'm not ending anything."

Red's panic dissipated like a popped bubble.

"You're not?"

"Of course not," Max said, looking a little hurt at the accusation, "Why would you think that?"

Shame prickled at Red's collar,

"Because you said 'Red' then trailed off, and your tone and expression implied reluctance, as if you were grappling with something unpleasant. And break up's are unpleasant. Or so I've heard."

Max startled him by groaning,

"Oh Red I'm sorry. I didn't mean to worry you." 

One large hand slipped down to cover Red's, 

"I was trying to ask... I was trying to ask if I could try something a little different and I got embarrassed."

"Something different?" Red echoed.

Max nodded, embarrassment flickering subtly in his field. Red shifted his hand beneath Max's to stroke his fingers.

"Go on," he prompted gently.

Max mustered a small smile, though it wavered somewhat as he meet Red's optics.

"Can I... Pleasure your valve?"

Red's engine gave a thunderous rev and he almost toppled off the berth.

"That's what you wanted to ask?" he exclaimed as he righted himself.

The ferocity in his cheekplates seemed to mirror Max's own.

"Well, yes," Max said rather timidly, "Of course we don't have to if you don't..."

Red shook his helm, shock subsiding into a mix of nervousness and excitement. Truthfully he had imagined what it would feel like to have Max's lips locked over his....  
His engine gave another rumble. 

"No I want to," he said softly, "Please."

Max hesitated,

"You're sure?"

Red nodded, managing a small smile that didn't quite mask his nerves. Max watched him a moment before lowering himself down on his knees, becoming wedged between Red's thighs. His intake hitched as Max pressed an almost reverent kiss to abdomen. Red's smile unconsciously grew wider, mouth parting in a moan as Max trailed kisses down the bumps of his lower plating.

Then came the almost sinful drag of his tongue over interface panel - Red gasping - and it seemed to spring open of it's own accord. Max gave one fond glance upwards before his mouth came to nuzzle against Red's valve. 

Red had never been so happy to be proven wrong in his assumptions in his life.


End file.
